Mendi Lewis Obadike

Over Easy

           New Orleans, night

Our last night in town, my friend is just from her mother
When the elevator catches her made-up face unawares.
Wrapped in myself, I miss the down-turned eyes,
But manage to plead, Come with us, and she does.

Ours is a party of strangers, as tightly
Bound by lack as by what we hold
Between us. Who knows what could be
Ailing another? Alone as we are,

We make our way through the blacker part
Of the city in a pack. We wear the night
And one another as a perfect skin. This city converts
Our words into whatever magic we need.

We’re on the catwalk. This side of Congo Square,
Men buzz, but not to us. Here, they reach
And call to each other as if old friends: Work,
Sweetness. This is to the brothers who walk

Among us, who keep aloof but nonetheless, flock
Here. Right now they flank her, my sad friend,
Noting her strut. A few steps behind, I am
Watching them raise the veil of sorrow from her eyes

And send it to the stars. She likes it when they talk
To her in third person: The girl is fly. One lifts
Her hand above her head to twirl her. Hair/shoes,
Someone whispers. Skin/hair, someone whispers back.

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