the perfect marriage

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i’ve evolved from spitfoam into hearth-iron ribs
trapped between septic fingers and lost doors.

one gummy eye used to be the rasp moon,
the other a varnished cloud.

i’ve created ants and snow in a womb
for licking, cloying death.

for freezing, for festering age,
years. rafts of web on web.

i scream in a locked room.
where only i am dreaming of being me.

to accumulate in wrinkles that are parenthesis
around your matchwood mouth or baby horns between
the swale of brow-felt.

the hole that gullets its teeth.


 

samantha lucero 2017 ©