Our Lake Pontchartrain

On the edges of the lake,

there are cars that blast music

on the fourth of July.

Half naked gangsters

talk loudly to flabby stomached

black women

with the ends of their braids dyed blonde.

They sling beer cans to their mouths

and shout

and laugh

and pucker black lips in backseats.

Ten years ago, 2002,

my mother confessed

She wanted to kill herself

at the lake,

but she couldn’t,

so instead

we sat silent

on the rims of our seats

watching the crusts of the lake.

The gangsters had kites

and they watched them glide across

the blue above.

Music sprayed out of the cars

covering everyone with sound

until they didn’t know

that anything

at all

could be happening.

We watched their puddle of ecstasy

for hours that year.

It is 2012,

and in a bland moment

of inconsequence

I stick my toes into the darker sand

and my soul into the sounds,

the water,

and the sky.

The depths tell their secret,

and then I know

how very odd it is

that the lake did not suffocate

my dear old

black mother.