Louis E. Bourgeois
Lines Written on the Shore of Lake Borgne
I'm writing this on an Oyster bar
that juts out peninsula-like
into Lake Borgne,
where my father and I
fish for specks and reds
every June and July.
Across from me, Fort McComb
lies in ruins along the Chef Pass.
Each year it grows smaller and smaller,
its stones and bricks
tumbling to the bottom of the lake.
Willow trees and live oaks
grow through the ruins
and on the shore.
My father first brought me here
when I was four years old.
We'd throw our lines out
and hope a good tide
would come in and change
our lives for a while--
the sheep's head and drum
grew as large as mackerel in those days.
Sometimes, if the fish weren't biting,
we'd shuck oysters and eat them raw,
and tell stories of gypsies and pirates
and Indians that used to come this way.
Other times, if we were fortunate,
we'd get to watch the dolphins migrate from the Gulf of Mexico
to feed on the silver mullet
in the hottest months of summer.
The dolphins would
come in a dozen at a time
and the mullet would jump
out of the water by the hundreds.
Brown and white pelicans
would dive into the mullet schools
and fill their basket-bills.
The cormorants that fed before them
dried their wings on the rocky shore.
Storms would come
and drive everything away.
Water spouts would
form on the lake's horizon,
and whirlpools
would suck in everything
under the Chef Menteur bridge.
During the storm, the gars
would roll by the dozen
on the surface of the lake
mistaking the raindrops for flies.
We'd watch the storm
from under the bridge,
counting ourselves lucky
that we made it to cover.
Louis E. Bourgeois is a man of mystery.
Home
Issue Three
Lines Written on the Shore of Lake Borgne
I'm writing this on an Oyster bar
that juts out peninsula-like
into Lake Borgne,
where my father and I
fish for specks and reds
every June and July.
Across from me, Fort McComb
lies in ruins along the Chef Pass.
Each year it grows smaller and smaller,
its stones and bricks
tumbling to the bottom of the lake.
Willow trees and live oaks
grow through the ruins
and on the shore.
My father first brought me here
when I was four years old.
We'd throw our lines out
and hope a good tide
would come in and change
our lives for a while--
the sheep's head and drum
grew as large as mackerel in those days.
Sometimes, if the fish weren't biting,
we'd shuck oysters and eat them raw,
and tell stories of gypsies and pirates
and Indians that used to come this way.
Other times, if we were fortunate,
we'd get to watch the dolphins migrate from the Gulf of Mexico
to feed on the silver mullet
in the hottest months of summer.
The dolphins would
come in a dozen at a time
and the mullet would jump
out of the water by the hundreds.
Brown and white pelicans
would dive into the mullet schools
and fill their basket-bills.
The cormorants that fed before them
dried their wings on the rocky shore.
Storms would come
and drive everything away.
Water spouts would
form on the lake's horizon,
and whirlpools
would suck in everything
under the Chef Menteur bridge.
During the storm, the gars
would roll by the dozen
on the surface of the lake
mistaking the raindrops for flies.
We'd watch the storm
from under the bridge,
counting ourselves lucky
that we made it to cover.
Louis E. Bourgeois is a man of mystery.
Home
Issue Three
All rights reserved.
Chickenpinata
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| issue three |