Along St. John’s Bayou, 
	beneath cobalt canopy
	and rising moon, 
the initiates erect 
	the Shrine to the Queen:
	impersonated—paper mâché and paint. 

Rum, cigars, and cornmeal designs, 
fish leaping from the water, 
	the drums begin and the dancers
		—ecstatic sparks clad in white—
	whirl across the green banks;
	the wind picks up 
		and, for a moment,
		the current seemingly
			reverses course.
 
The order of the rite is worked 
	to the delight of the onlookers 
		on the far shore; 
	a drone glides overhead 
		cutting-edge sensing technology
			straining to glimpse 
				the liminal.

The Houngan’s call comes 
	with the last catch of the fisherwoman’s day 
	as the stars glimmer feebly 
over the Crescent City’s luminous awakening.

The Asson’s gentle response, 
	a rattle and a chime, 
		living memento of the history 
	only a few miles upstream 
beneath the same indigo vault.

The Ounfo sings 
	and our masks begin to slip. 

Studded with twinkling diamonds, 
	night’s black velvet cloak enshrouds the Queen 
	as the moon crowns Her brow,
and painted paper sublimates 
	beyond flesh 
		into spirit.