On Sunday, a gathering of three women poets in the Bayou Teche Museum drew a small, yet reasonable crowd. I knew when I planned the poetry reading that it wouldn’t be everyone’s favorite vegetable, so I was pleased that the 30 chairs were nearly all full.
After I read, I introduced Liz Burk. Liz and I met on the dance floor; her husband and mine both enjoy going out for Cajun dancing. We’ve run into each other for years and maybe because we are both poets, we had a strong connection, seeking each other out to sit together. One of the joys of retirement is having lunch with a friend. At one of our lunch dates, Liz said to me, “I’d love to read in New Iberia. I’ve never read there.”
I set it up with the curator of the Bayou Teche Museum, and we decided to invite a third poet, Ava Leavell Haymon. We both knew and loved her. Ava, who was Poet Laureate of Louisiana from 2013-2015, lives in Houston now, so we were very excited that she agreed to come.
Liz, who is a transplant from New York to Louisiana, writes a lot of poems about “Learning to Love Louisiana.” Her poems are real, romantic, and witty. Today I am sharing one that was published by One Art Poetry in 2025.
Shards of Light
I have lunch with a younger friend
whose beard is turning to iron—
in compensation, his ponytail
grows longer. We talk and I wonder
if he had ever desired me. I try to keep
such narcissistic preoccupations
tucked away from my awareness,
but they glow now in the dim light
of this restaurant at noon,
that murky gray of a rainy day,
shards of light streaking oblique and harsh
through unwashed windows,
turning everything ashen and pasty.
The young waitress sashays back
and forth, appears to flaunt
her lithe body while I sit lumpy
on the booth banquette. I’ve lost height
from what used to be my waistline up—
the spine undoubtedly collapsing—
it feels like the table between us
is at the level of my chin. I squelch
the urge to ask for a booster seat.
I turn my attention back to my friend,
listen as he recounts his adventures
traversing the country solo
in his new minivan, realize his true desire
lies in his need to tell me his stories.
As for my need to feel desired,
I’m hoping that tiresome burden
will diminish with age—
will it bring mourning or relief?
Elizabeth Burk
Ava read from three of her collections. With Halloween just around the corner, she shared a poem from her book “Why the House is Made of Gingerbread” in which she embodies a character, a woman named Gretel, who takes on the fairy tale as her own childhood story.
It was selected by Lemony Snicket to be included in “Poetry Not Written for Children that Children Might Nevertheless Enjoy.”
The Witch Has Told You a Story
BY AVA LEAVELL HAYMON
You are food.
You are here for me
to eat. Fatten up,
and I will like you better.
Your brother will be first,
you must wait your turn.
Feed him yourself, you will
learn to do it. You will take him
eggs with yellow sauce, muffins
torn apart and leaking butter, fried meats
late in the morning, and always sweets
in a sticky parade from the kitchen.
(Read the complete poem here.)
The poetry reading was a highlight for me. Our three styles of writing are as different as three kittens in a mixed litter, but we each have a passion for the poetic form. When asked if this was the first in a series of poetry readings, I responded, “No!” There are just some things that should happen just once.
