I pointed at the prettiest one with the purple, green, and gold icing and said, “Let me try that.”
The lady behind the counter handed me a slice with a smile. The second it touched my tongue, I gasped. “Oh my God…”
The lady cackled. “It’s good, huh?” she asked in her thick New Orleans accent.
I nodded, mouth full. “Walmart could never.”
She wheezed laughing. “Yeah, we know. That lil plastic-wrapped circle they sell ain’t got nothin’ on us, baby.”
I licked some icing off my finger and said, “I see I’ve been living a lie.”
She was shaking her head like I was a lost cause just now finding the light. I bought the whole slice and walked out with sugar on my lips, my edges frizzing up from the heat, and a grin stretching across my face.
I was contemplating going back for another slice when I spotted an older man sitting at a small table with an old-school typewriter in front of him. The sign read:
“Poems While You Wait — Tips Welcome.”
He looked up at me with kind eyes and asked, “You want one, baby girl?”
I shrugged, still chewing. “Sure. What you need to know?”
He waved a hand. “Just your name. Let the city tell me the rest.”
“Lyrix,” I said, digging into my purse for some cash. I dropped some cash in his tip bucket as he cracked his knuckles and leaned over the typewriter.
The keys sang like a soundtrack to some moment I didn’t even realize was coming.
I stood off to the side watching tourists, letting the music from a nearby saxophone player swirl around me. It felt like something was blooming in my chest.
After a few minutes, he yanked the page from the machine, folded it gently, and handed it to me like he was giving me scripture.
“Here you go, Ms. Lyrix,” he said. “Let this one sit with you for a while.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling as I walked away, unfolding the page with curiosity.
“A love letter to the Heaux”
written in Jackson Square, under good sun & sugar air
you spent a year in silence,
whispering prayers into pillows,
scribbling peace into journals,
trying to love yourself without permission.
you thought healing meant hiding.
but what if healing also means dancing?
screaming?
moaning?
waking up in places that smell like sweat and sea salt and beignets?
this city, baby—
