Ekphrasis
As grainy as my view of them
in history’s record, still, the photo
shows at least eleven faces,
most half-masked by sun
if not by makeup or elaborate
crowns they must have painted
brighter than Louisiana sunrise.
Which route do they march, retreading
the peace pipe procession’s path nearly
two centuries prior? They are frozen
in high contrast to the tales of Choctaw
and Yoruba hidden from the streets
of Newest Orleans, of maroon
communities seeking shelter
together, or of locals later kept
from public traditions by force
of law. The eleven revelers’ regalia
adorns them in mystery: whose tribe
do their bright smiles comprise?
Have they, with moccasined feet, stood
among the ghosts of Congo Square?
Only the power tower appears clear
behind them, less clear is what it means
to squint at Yellow Pocahontas but strain
less at the sight of Black Cherokee.
Did the youngest among them lose
the tongues of Bulbancha? Will they
still be Indian after the second line
comes home? Who do they become
in this photo, fading already
as it was taken—who, if not more
themselves?