prose
It had then taken two full months for Jessaline to make inquiries and sufficient contacts to arrange a meeting with the esteemed Monsieur Norbert Rillieux. The Creoles of New Orleans were a closed and prickly bunch, most likely because they had to be; only by the rigid maintenance of caste and privilege could they hope to retain freedom in a land which loved to throw anyone darker than tan into chains. Thus more than a few of them had refused to speak to Jessaline on sight. Yet there were many who had not forgotten that there but for the grace of God went their own fortune, so from these she had been able to glean crucial information and finally an introduction by letter. As she had mentioned the right names and observed the right etiquette, Norbert Rillieux had at last invited her to afternoon tea.
That day had come, and…
And. Rillieux, Jessaline was finally forced to concede, was an idiot.
poetry
PALE HANDS I LOVED BESIDE THE SHALIMAR.
—Laurence Hope.
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?
Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—”“Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight?
I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.
God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar—All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight.
Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken;Only we can convert the infidel tonight.
Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexitiesmultiply me at once under your spell tonight.
He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.
In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed.No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.
God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day—I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight.
Executioners near the woman at the window.Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.
The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayerfade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.
My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all?This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.
And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee—God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
