Devil Music

by Justin Lacour

The semester you got saved,
you gave me all your White Zombie albums,
as if this kindness would make me love you,
not the woman with Bettie Page bangs
and good weed,
would make me keep you company,
as silence swallowed up
your first prayers
and you waited for water
to flow in your heart,
for a word to lift you out
of the forest of strangers.
I wasn’t there,
but now, I think of you,
as I sit in church with the off-key singing
and the smell of crawfish
wafting in from Capt. Sid’s
across the street,
how we never would have survived as a couple,
though we should have tried,
if only to spare each other
the loneliness of wanting heaven
while the world sank its teeth in our heels,
and if I could bring you back
for a minute, I’d list all
the songs I gave up,
songs that begin and end with myself,
to make room for the song
that feels sometimes like the first snow,
amazing and terrifying,
that sounds sometimes like your voice
whispering It’s okay; I forgive you.

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Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans with his wife and three children, and edits Trampoline. He is the author of Hulk Church (Belle Point, 2023).