a city map is sewn in the scalp;
looped in the goat-milk, or spit out,
tongued in silky blades of stomped
i’m crowned with high-pitched fingers
clenched in fur.
in octaves only shades can bear, i simmer
in their holy cradles.
i become the roughened corner of a mouth
grinning at its own joke.
there, the receding home in ranch-style polaroids of a dirty blond stranger and my mother squinting in the sun; some home not mine or yours.
in a woman’s left grows tiny,
and in a man’s more supple.
i keep alive by milking goats.
some like lifelines, some like ulcers
the city streets are braided in my hair.
samantha lucero 2018 ©
A recent story one of my BFF’s and I wrote together. A publisher for an anthology passed on it (and my other ghost story, too. I finally found the email. which means I’ll be posting that one up eventually, too.) it’s written in two perspectives, Adelina and Vera, two single moms (and characters we used to role-play on journals in a World of Darkness setting, I TOLD YOU I WAS A NERD.) both first person. It’s about 15k words, so it’s kind of a commitment. It was partly inspired by a weird place in the hills of NJ.
And yes, it’s horror. Do you even know me?
Two single moms leave their lives behind
and start over, but …
Continue reading “‘There are doors’ a short story by Christine Delano & Samantha Lucero”
i was once obscure
like food stains under skirts
or a film of oil on a flowers tongue
but i grew to be a bigger blemish
like a birthmark on gods face
until i had to hide away
so no one saw
death had come on many occasions
and i, the greeter at the door would grin
but i was not the company he was looking for
when i’d invite him in
thus i watched them all march out
my loves; one-by-one and fall to ash
and still i, never being the one sought out
began to wear white instead of black
to mourn; no coward soul is mine,
in hopes he’d never return.
words = samantha lucero 2017 ©.
photo = emily dickinson.
her eyes were emerald cities in tourmaline
mist spit down from the burning moon
though soot and whisper woke my wolf-child
from her yellow maidens melody
she pooled in fevered mulch and wooden pearls
that he planted with misery and pined out
by laughing at the demon-fruit;
by dining in the diamond’s vein
restlessly into that muddy river’s spine
frothed sticky, milk-white limbs
butter-knifed into the nectar of a princess cut
moonstone, stinging quietly as ruby winds
on brand new wings
and way over the feather-laden fields, far out
where she tangles, soaking in the grave he wept her
the mineral tongue of earth has lapped her
swallowed gems and all
words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.
The baron of apparitions drawls, the original stranger, the viper in a giftbox, the undulation behind an old moth-curtain in an empty taxidermy room. The stranger with the sweeping eyes enlivened as a glisten underneath an insomnia blanket, polished silver in a dungeon, grinning at the corners like a shedding portrait in a frozen castle. He has the sallow radiance of the wolf-moon overhead cringing into the stark lines of crow’s feet beside his unblinking set of alert, unnerving eyes; you can hardly tell that the statue-face has scant color of its own. Not when he steeples tall and dark like the shadow of a broadsword in a gravesite. He’s a pale witching mask, father gargoyle, held on by the slender fingers of fog that envelope and are drawn to him. Unmoving, yet somehow his presence seems to prickle, seems slippery, murky, oil in the heart-line of the palm, as if it is moving.
words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.
before growing too attached to the imagery, beware that this is a post-mortem photograph. unsurprisingly, it’s from the victorian era, which readily embraced the miry arms of feeble death, but with an identical, modern anxiety that has spanned all of mans clumsy life, for richer or for poorer. we are life and we’re married to death. and death does appear so mediocre, we see it peeking by hospital beds and sitting on chests, waiting for blood tests in filthy chairs, in the black eyes of the unforgettable.
with that sinking knowledge, her woeful expression might make more sense. a candle in a nightmare room. the swollen eyes don’t portray the living love of a mother employed full-time to her rosy babe, but rather the rip that love has made. a tear that can’t be seamed. the hand that has reached inside of her, through her, and took something out. something that will always be missing. her face is a funeral banner for eternal loss. as a mother, my heart collapses for her.
i use this photograph as a reference point for the short story i’m attempting to put together for an anthology that a small publishing company is looking for. i don’t even remember how i found out about it. it’s a strange concept of a ‘mountain pass’ cowboy/western and honestly, not one i’d usually think to contribute to (i love westerns, but mountain passes?) then i remembered the above photograph, a few paragraphs came to me. i’ve decided to post a little bit of it here. because it’ll either be rejected (like all of my work.) and because maybe it’ll shove me into finishing it.
ACROSS LOTS – (excerpt)
Continue reading “she reluctantly pastes together a short story for a submission”