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
never fleeing.

you can still hear it whisper.
sewn into her smell,
the woman you dreamt in,
but punctured,
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
black eyes.
had bore a hole and let in
ghosts.

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.

always listening
when you’re asleep, through
walls and dirt and
stars.

and tonight,
ringing in your ears.

© samantha lucero 2017