Saturday, April 23
THAT DAMN MARDI GRAS BABY Every year I'm the one who cuts the king cake right over its ear, the little infant tumbling out on its head with its rump in the air, as if it's begging to be spared, its mouth still covered in praline and berry, caught snacking and smacking its sugary lips. I have no child except for you, my plastic off-center kid, my future still born in miniature prostration, Barbie and Ken's abortion fished from the dumpster, little Jesus without his manger faceless as the future balled in my fist, because I cannot throw this little hope away. I still might wish to have a real one someday. (D. A. Powell)