Bullet wounds

Small and beautiful, she had three bullet scars on her back, parting shots from her former husband.

A few years later, she encountered a tall blackbeard on St. Patrick’s night in an Irish Channel saloon. On Magazine Street, just a few blocks from the famous river curve.

Their celebration continued through several more dives, and that evening ended at his home near Bayou St. John where both passed out stone drunk.

She had a part-time job, descending into black holes. She was a chimney sweep, the only one he ever knew. And the most lovely.

Squeezing into those sooty spots served a therapeutic purpose, one imagines. It seemed too obvious to ignore. But the bullets had damaged her soul. She vanished.

Blackbeard kept her photo for decades, smiling at the camera with a pencil in her hand, touching her lips. She was a writer most of all.

That snapshot sailed away like most of his possessions just before he boarded the jet that took him to Guadalajara.

Comments are nice.

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s