Ode to the Indigenous

Gina Ferrara

After the city slipped and became a wound
without a tourniquet, bleeding old
with the new no one knew,
the treasures like the indigenous,
where the crepe myrtles grew
from south to north, the magenta, lavender,
pink and white in tandem
and clustered looking bleach barked, barely
bending towards the lake...summer,
the scent of brine and the bridge lights
illuminated, smaller than pinpricks in shades of amber
for twenty five miles before the horizon,
the point with the darkened lighthouse,
splashy staccato, jagged rocks breaking waves,
the big tree in the park, just beyond the labyrinth,
the bend in the distance where we sat watching
vessels pass with faded letters and foreign flags,
tankers carrying barrels and grain flanked by tugboats,
how the cicadas signaled the start of imminent Augusts and Septembers
without being seen from the apexes of oaks.

About the Author

Gina Ferrara lives in New Orleans. She has published two collections of poetry: Ethereal Avalanche (Trembling Pillow Press, 2009) and Amber Porch Light (CW Books, 2013). Her poems have appeared in Callaloo, The Briar Cliff Review, Lowestoft Chronicle, and Poetry Ireland Review, among others.