Mother’s Day at Crystal Banquet, Now Closed

I dance with my mother beneath the fake crystal

chandelier. A group of us swaying kompa in circles,

with our mothers, in honor of our mothers, despite

our mothers. We radiate out like the plastic floral

arrangements adorning each table, our endless

fractal orbit, Creole as sonic centerfold. I don’t

understand what infects me, only know it does,

the iridescence of immortal flowers, the kompa band’s

baritone, the blue as the karabela dresses river

down a makeshift runway. We have come to

pay respect to our mothers, our mother tongue

which heals, speaks for itself, is here in our collective

magnetic spin, our slew of aphorisms, our revolutionary

lilt, honed. All our mothers are here with us,

our bodies & so their bodies raised mitochondrial.

& we have gathered to eat bread and chicken penne,

for Tante Raymonde to take my arm & lead me

to dance, for my cousin Michael to chase me,

this too a dance. He catches me, tickles my sides.

I am 8, sideways, a small infinity. My laughter is

in Creole. I laugh like no one is after me.