Scrawlings

A ninety foot tall cross bordered in stable white neon; above it another sign, running red and white lights. It reads “Hope” for a few seconds, switches to “Dope” then back again.  Caution: causes seizures in those prone to epilepsy. At the bottom, men with nicotine-stained fingers stir great pots of jambalaya. Occasional cigarette ash drops into the pots for seasoning. Look up; yellow-tooth smile.

Up on a lonely hill a woman plays violin. A classical tune that I don’t know, something about the wind in the trees. There are no trees here, though, only rocks and ocean. She hears bells in the distance, calling her home, but she hasn’t finished her song. The last note has to be played before she can go. Her mother weeps.

I heard a woman read her poetry today… such a clear and beautiful voice. My own has grown ragged and rough with too many years of smoke and drink. We should read something together, I think; her one stanza and I the next. Something about beauty and death, maybe.

The cross has been torn down now, unplugged and dark. Shops along the wet street are empty, boarded over. Soon bulldozers will come, and no one will know that this place ever existed. The jambalaya men have moved across the border and sit in a small café, their beards wet with beer.

I stand with the poet-woman on a hill, reading this to you, stanza by stanza. The violin plays on behind us. The song she plays has no ending. We watch as construction begins on the empty lot far below. A neon cross is the first to go up. It’s always the same.