blood-blue bowman

he’s rain swelling in the mothers open skirts

the starving soup of venom & wings gone gray

medicine in the mouths of the blessed dead


I hear flowers moan

when  fingers break their stems like bones

& press into the trickle of their shook loose hair

stirring the yellow heartbeat of the sky

for only one word

one of his


he’s the running light against a sunk

terrain of starry roads

he’s my king of distant oceans;

my watery-eyed snapped arrow

the bulging purr at the begging blood of coastal war

mist into sweat

wet souls, white salt on the upper lip

moist whispers, electric ice, & snakeskin

& one dusty fingerprint of the creator.

words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.