On Wednesday the invalid sank into the sleep which knows no waking.

In 1925, Marie walks into a speakeasy,
The code is never an issue, it’s always
Her face. The sun is at its highest point

In the sky when she lays the strip of 
Newspaper clippings against the marble
Counter top. The bartender brings her

Regular, she picks the glass and paper up
The way any other would sit down for 
A morning cup of coffee. 

At 5  o’clock yesterday evening Marie Laveau was buried in her family 
tomb in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.

A voice in her head she thought she left behind
Long ago speaks incessantly in her ear. She closes
Her eyes, takes another sip, lets the taste of sweet

Orange overtake her senses. She made the right
Choice. She wasn’t going back. After all, she had
The beginning of her life waiting to start. 

Marie Laveau’s name will not be forgotten in New Orleans.
But what if that’s all she wants?

There’s talk of the world ending. The New Year
Is fast approaching, Marie walks past the setup
For Dick Clark, the hordes of tourists allow her

To weave in and out unnoticed. The Christmas
Decorations still light her path, she stands in front
Of her tomb for the first time. 

X’s litter the surface, a reminder of every wish she’s
Ignored, a voodoo doll that never worked, petals fall
Directly onto her hands, disappears as quickly as

The sound of Prince’s voice echoing throughout
the city fades. She’s about to witness
Her second turn of a century.

She can’t say it out loud, But she wants the world to
End.  She’s looked death in the eye, and yet this is the
First time she feels old. She’s tired. 

Wonders what It would be like to open the tomb
And climb inside. He would never allow that. 
Marie knows he’s watching, every time she turns
A corner, he’s there. So she leaves.

She watches the ball drop. and when Legba shows
Up with the drink she was expecting, She takes a sip. 
She’s beginning to forget who she is, and if 
That person ever existed.

I’m sitting on the floor of my parents bedroom,
It’s late at night, and the blue light burns. The
Screen of the old television set is the size of my palm. 

If I press my hand close enough, I swear I can
Feel the static, it’s when I first see her. 

Her hair pulled up beneath a hat, she grips
The steering wheel, checking the rearview
Mirrors as if it’s a ritual. I can feel my heart race,

An old man with a cane walks up to the car. 
She’s scared. I know this. 

The man doesn’t stop coming, always asking for
A ride. It keeps the cyclical stance, I begin to wonder
If it’s just me who’s falling asleep.

I see her fear grow stronger. I reach out my hand, 
Expecting to feel the static, turn off the tv, go to bed. 
Instead, I feel the palm of a hand press against mine. 

It’s her. She looks me in the eye before the man finally
Pulls her out of the car.

The song’s just a small hum,
Really, as the white convertable

Speeds loud against the roads 
She leaves behind. If the breaks work,

She doesn’t know. She reaches her 
Hand out, eyes never leaving the dark

Stretch ahead, turns the volume up. Her
Fingers tap along to the beat.

She puts the car in park. The radio dial 
turns all the way left, until nothing but

Static resounds. She isn’t scared of death, only
Because no death will come. I can’t imagine

What it’s like. I’m only the shadow she casts
Onto the cracked pavement. I watch as she

Waits for the signal to break, a phrase to come
Through. Is she stuck or lost? I can sense the fear

She feels, she’s tired of living. I can’t help but think
I’d like to trade places with her, to live forever.

But the for sale sign blooms, the front
Lawn, bright green, hot to the touch.

My bare feet bound across the blades,
My grandmother trails after me,
Calling with my sandals dangling
From one hand.

The new adventure
Awaits me as I race up the back 
Staircase. I don’t notice her, but she
Sees me. 

As she always does, as she always
Will. She watches as I reach for the 
Unfinished railing, silent in the doorway,

My grandmother reaches me, holds 
out her hand for me to take, but she’s
Too late.

Marie reaches me first. Takes my small hand
In hers as she inspects the splinter that entered
My finger. She tells my grandmother not to
Worry,

Leads me inside, asks if I can keep a secret.
The first of many I have to keep.
She tells me to close my eyes, when I 
open them, the splinter’s gone.

I realized it was her voice, too late,
The one that only existed in dreams.

As a constellation, she’s Aquila, the
Eagle who carried thunderbolts for

Zeus, bore Aquarius to Mount Olympus.
As a star, she’s Altair, the brightest in

The Summer Triangle. Can I tell you
A secret? I’m selfish. 

I treat her like a phenomenon, one I’m
Not sure I can believe until I see.

They say if you mark three x’s on her
Grave, she’ll grant you a wish.

Like a shooting star, I want to make a
Wish on her. As I stare into the night

Sky, I think it’s almost too silent. Even
The familiar sound of the treefrogs and

Buzz of cicadas is gone. Is she out there?
If she streaks across the sky this summer, what

Might I wish for? I think tonight it would
Be to hold onto my childhood just a little longer,

To play Candy Land with Dad, movie nights with
Mom, hayrides on Halloween, where time pauses,

To hold how this night feels in a heart shaped locket,
Tucked in close to my chest.

I’m older now. The time seems to slip through my
Fingertips like sand through an hourglass. I’m 
Almost as tall as her, she who remains 

Unchanging. By now, it’s a guessing game on who
Leaves first. She sits on my blue shag carpet as I
Riffle through the crate I shoved into a corner.

Oftentimes, I forget we’re not related. She begins
To seem like the cool aunt who brings me gifts
From her travels. Hard to remember it won’t

Last. It’s Fleetwood Mac that makes Her cry.
I wipe her tears to the sounds of Silver Springs,
I feel the heartbreak, but she won’t tell

Me who did it. I think I’m old enough to know, I
Think I want to her to let me in. She says we
have all the time in the world. 

For the first time, I don’t believe what she tells me.

We’re on the same page. It’s a future
We painted using the same paint brush,
Me with the light pinks, her with the yellows.

We create a sunset. A cottage, sitting on a hill,
It overlooks the sea. Nothing can touch us here,
A space where time is paused. It holds every

Dream I’ve had, all the shooting stars collected 
Under the staircase. It holds her magic, the thrum
Heard through the house, a quiet vibration beneath

The hands. The radio is always on, no commercials,
Only a playlist made of favorite songs. We sit at the
Kitchen table and play cards. I know this is where

It ends. I draw the three x’s slowly onto the top of
Her hand, and I make a wish for the last time. I
Let her go. It’s a good dream, but it’s one I know

Can’t last forever. If she was real, I couldn’t say, 
But when I wake the next morning, I see the for
Sale sign, the mailbox painted white.