i was in a dirt hole or clasped on
a napping road-trip road.
palpitating thru the lines or bones
on the ground, or underneath.
i found her heart in a rat pile
flapping like loose mother-skin
grieving with the last milk oval
on the whelps tongue.
are above me, like you
in a circlet of whore-stars,
teeth for deep space.
a belligerent isolation embraces
me and i am born in bright black.
i stare into the sun and when i
shut my eyes, it winks back
and it will never leave.
my love was a thousand shells
in salt on earth. i was the killing jar.
the beat of sunflower wings
in cement initials.
samantha lucero 2018 ©
I see those mottled photos, ornate albums
of yesterdays yellow sun
Of swollen women, dream-like, in a lavender field.
They leash their arms around an oval-shape
becoming empty; the shape deflates, the air comes out like water.
It starts to breathe it’s own small breath in the shape of a person,
someday a man, a woman, sometimes swollen, sometimes
stiff, stark, or bleeding.
Seeing those photos one day,
your nose has memorized leather and tobacco flower.
for her, it’s dr.pepper, Disney on ice
the coty musk she never knew she had just inside the pi of bone.
samantha lucero 2017 ©
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”
you began under the skin,
a squeezing-hug swanning
in the dark red.
you dreamt in amniotic blankets
shifting sinuously in white noise,
soaking into your veins and
you can still hear it whisper.
sewn into her smell,
the woman you dreamt in,
holding you tight, yet letting
you keep slipping
ringing in your ears like the lunar
mewl of stars.
do you remember
your mother at 2am squinting
at the kitchen table. a skirt full
of aged milk leaking through
a face that touches
the walls of your mind.
she was silk back then,
not the splintery thing she became
when too much life, like too much
smoke, or too much wine
had tunneled underneath her
had bore a hole and let in
you were a note in the ribs
perfume on paper,
the charmed sense to wake up
with the sun, and lie down
with the moon.
she hears you down the hall
in her heart and jolts awake.
it’s your melody of a scent that
never leaves her head.
your hair that traps her.
when you’re asleep, through
walls and dirt and
ringing in your ears.
© samantha lucero 2017
it’s my desire that the membrane of
featureless dark slumbering between you
and a living, breathing world will
never scare you, not from letting go
i want you to be as untroubled as a feline shadow
stretching back like the vivid light in your young eyes
for you to know that nothing creeps
not in the crawling wisps of bedtime silence,
nor the neutered intentions
left inside the house spiders poisoned heart;
nothing waits there in the resting dark
nothing but folded up dust so neatly cached in
quiet relics long, small memories flung upon
the raw grass of ageless play
where moon meets sun, and sun meets moon
in endless day
think of the mythic wild,
aching for a secret of your river words
tree limbs undressed in winter
waiting for the untamed howl
of the green man’s oily summer yawn
the salt of the sea widowed on your cupid’s bow
a chorus of humming live creatures in the stars
and serenading you with indiscernible hymns
only a child can know and hear;
show me how to listen again.
look not in the cold dark where you cannot see
and think of lonely things which might hang
in the hard corners of your nearing sleep.
shut your eyes. let life rest.
think of the day and how in the dark
there is nothing that was not in the light.
and if there is
let it be afraid of y o u.
words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = wish i knew.
i wish i could recall the pulsing safety
of my mother’s red, warm womb
that sacred burrow i curled where all i heard
was the watery song of her galloping heart
& the indistinct voice of my uncertain future
where she’d forget i ever lived within her
where i was wove to bone & flesh
& therefore have known her like
no other ever will
where she could not turn her back on me
as she did in life, because she wore me
in the front; a living fragment of her
until it came time i breathe on my own
& since then i’ve always breathed
how did it feel to be carried
in strong arms born on
or near halloween?
to be kissed while i slept
by the bags of blood-blue eyes?
to be ignorant of the
cold, hard truths of life?
before life scrubbed them from my skin
erased them from my spine & eyes
replaced them with fire
& darkness, so that i’d know that
bad memories burn & the good ones die
i wish i had my last memories of peace
words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.