The Odyssey

We can’t end where we begin – we pushed back from a sunny shore, from the waving arms of plump tourists on Bourbon Street. St. Louis Cathedral’s stately spires faded behind us as we set sail towards the Bywater, a path of her strawberry tinsel trailing us through the Mardi Gras. Outside the Ruby Slipper she, rosy costume shimmering, turned her mouth skywards in a lament. This place is past the climax, this place is dying, her bird hands pointed downwards, empty of cash and drinks, so I grabbed them, palm in palm. Some things were made to decay, to bog, to rot. We slipped onto Burgundy Street, open eyes peering, the dusk of day waning around us. 

That’s terribly romantic, my demented Blanche, bonnet berry green said in return. I’ll show her decay is alive, I thought. Crossing the Elysian Fields, we hooted at a crowd of frat boys in pastel suits running into traffic, our arms caught moving by the speeding sirens, bodies outlined in beaming headlights. Against their sticky sweet suits, we ingratiated ourselves, my berry and I, sucking up white stuff from tiny baggies, tripping out of their circle before they could grab us, our laughter mistaken as good humor, and then we were crossing over the neutral ground. Leap and you will find the water is much shallower than you expected, I was thick on her little grin when we reached the other side of that long paradise, I’d picked the ripest strawberry and the grin was my prize. I shouted and ran ahead, doubled back with my burlap jester’s mask flapping, screaming, Ulysseses didn’t travel alone did he! A passing burly gay repeated my words cackling, we skimmed together over the next curb before separating – me with my berry bright, he with his future into the night. 

We arrived in the afterlife and a dark-suited man played trumpet to progressive house; bodies spiraled together on the streets. A pale clown oversaw us, voice unheard but mouth agape, perched on a steeply pitched rooftop. Decay was welcome and wanted and I usually hate this music, but it was perfect, and we moved. One trip of her narrow feet and I caught the low swell of my berry’s back! One flick of my head and my pointy nosed mask transformed me to the wide grinning spectre of the marshy faubourg. We triangulated, bouncing from Anna’s to Big Daddy’s to the railyards before landing in the streets between, fleet footed we had arrived in a home of our own making, warm night air of early February, Fat Tuesday swinging heavily in the dark sky above us. Our feet

ground down into the misshapen asphalt bubbling with pluff mud centuries deep, the taste of piss in the naked air, I don’t care what anybody says, my jester and I locked eyes, should we kiss? I’ve been thinking the same thing - and yes I said yes I will 

yes!

KO Humphreys is a queer writer and artist based in Seattle, WA. They grew up in Louisiana and have never let go of the weird magic of the swamp.