I discovered the Witch of Leda Court back in 2004, when I still lived in New Orleans.
It was another life. I was off on an excursion to the Botanical Gardens and the Sculpture Garden
with the man who would later be my partner of seven years, though at that time I had no idea,
no inkling of what would later transpire. We were innocents, in the garden – friends. Now, 8 years
later, we are separated, and revisiting this golden olden day is strange, as if someone else lived it.
The pictures were lost for a long time, but I decided they wanted to be put back into place, that this
little snippet, a fragment of a life in New Orleans, pre-Katrina, pre-love and loss, wanted to be made
whole again. Or, at least – seen. I had a message a while back from a neighbor or relative of the woman
who lived in the house, explaining what I didn’t understand before. They wrote:
“Her name is not Mary Fortenberry. It was Beullah Roussell. (Mary is a neighbor she didn’t care for.)
Beullah was found dead last week. She was a tortured soul in life. May she finally rest in peace.”

Somehow, summer has slithered away –
sliding from my side like a sweat-soaked slip,
a sheath of dead skin, dull chrysalis.
On this last night of September, I recall
a convivial sojourn, and spy adventure
I had a few weeks ago, to Leda Court.
This street has held much mystery for me –
the houses seem to be holding their breath,
and everyone there has a secret…

At the end of the dead-end street this little
white house caught my eye…
Every window curtained tight,
and crazy handwritten signs posted
everywhere – KEEP OUT!
and this one:

I had to step into the yard to read the
sign in the window – it gave me chills
as soon as I made it out…

Who is Mary Fortenberry, and what did she do
to deserve such vituperation?
The neighbors say it was Mary that
made those signs – that she’s a crazy
witchy old lady with 40 cats.
I wonder if the sign is meant
for her daughter? Most peculiar.
I’m so curious, but I don’t want
to bother her or make her more crazy.
As I turned away, I saw a curtain rustle
and a snippet of gray face peer out.
Maybe I ought to bring her some biscuits.

On to the mysterious Luling Mansion…



This is one of my favorite houses in New Orleans.
I always get a distinctly creepy feeling from it,
and like to drive by and try to spy on whatever
arcane denizens might be up to sinister deeds.
Well, I’ve never actually seen any arcane denizens,
not on the grounds anyway.
But I’m sure they’re in there.
They probably just don’t come outside
because they are albino, and have pink eyes
and are blind like cave fish.
They only come out at night to boil virgins
in these enormous cauldrons.

Why else would someone have
a giant cast-iron cooking pot
in the yard? And don’t tell me
it’s for making molasses,
because I don’t want to
hear none o’ that.

Oh, and it used to belong to the
Louisiana Jockey Club –
Clearly, evil is afoot.

We walked in the garden, we looked at all the sculptures, we took pictures. We weren’t in love, yet.
Suspended in space, in time. Liminal states. Before then, before everything changed and the storm
laid waste to the garden. I remember we wondered how these sculptures fared, if the weathered it.

Terrifying chrome monkeys, reaching hands, a moment of love – coming together, sliding apart like mercury.

I didn’t bother to take note of the artist’s name, and also these pictures are astonishingly poor quality.
They were taken with my very first digital camera, which was kind of a P.O.S., or at least it seems so now.

A display of medicine bottles. Lots of random things at the New Orleans Botanical Gardens…

…Like this. Pretty wonderful.

Me dancing with a spider made by Louise Bourgeois, a fly in amber, forever dancing – caught in-between, another time.

I wanted to have a tea-party on these lily pads. I want to go back to that time when the sun was shining,
and we didn’t know anything about anything. Instead, I’m back here in New Orleans, older and wiser,
and treading water in a murky pond. I’m learning how to swim. I’m haunted, caught in webs of golden
threads, filaments of memory, of the shadows we used to make, not touching, so easy. Back then.