salem

It was there I felt an elemental shimmer wafting down, twirling down the clattered network of algae-clothed river stone, the molten hues of the unearthly chant. Hand-in-hand they harnessed three on the curled tongue of watery twilight, a hatched maiden circlet of prancing untamed snake-hair, delirious, and drifting over scratched tree-bitten hips by bark-teeth. All wailing midnight colors swooned and surmounted here in the night-spell, disorderly and bare as first birth, bells on their profane ankle bones, sacred toes manic in the old gods organic gems, varnished in oil and star blood.

I know them from the heart-stopping slip in my dreams, the air-stealing haunt they take on barren wombs, open tombs, the purple iris of the childless woman. The listening eyes in the quiet dark, nails filthy following the aeons placental scent. Throned Ancestress. Buried Vestal. Burned Witch.

I taste their hazy names like fire and dirt, watching, wishing to suffuse and collide. I am cowed by the inheritance of my own intrinsic power. Intimidated by their peace and embers.

Someday they will know my hellfire wish. I’ll tell them with a billowing tongue.


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

that overcast sleep

In my fondest scene of final liberty, before freedom transmuted to debris, everything was smothered-emerald glass, drown-bride grey, earthy-wet and fertile in my memory.
I excavate the loam of Ireland’s splintery bones in my graveyard dreams. I devour the moon surface of the windswept burren. There I am, artless skin, shuttered stare, dissolving against the purging sun. An alchemical zeal moistured into me an urge forever to weep.
I stole a spell-piece of stone from an icy gale, conjoined with a flower-twin, enslaved it for its precious prison color to hoard for my drowsy life. A myth reminder. And even now it’s throbbing pigment dies somewhere, unsmooth. Mislaid it’s magick leaguing oceans.
Here parade heartsick clouds, the revenant lacquer of grandfathers eyes before he died, an endless chain of cobblestone bruises and strangle-spoken veins. Crooked underneath neglected dirt, the effigy milk-maiden, the howling birthmother, the herb potion crone. The coursing rage of painted man that floods to the enemy, the empty toy teeth, the starving child, covered face.
I fantasize the chronicled doom of the cloister, living in the curl of a question mark, a forgotten spine. Catlike once, warm and purring, now waxy phantom and claw. She lived in the shard of a reliquary yonder, a rotten tooth on a hill she died on, no where to flee. Nothing edible but horror, waste, shame.
The tour guide thrills a finger toward a tide of wilting headstones, the crumpled lovenotes of fallen castles, the tiny littering spookshows of a famine.
I’ve never listened more closely for ancient whispers, waiting breathless for a whimper.

 


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

she’s toasting in nostalgia

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.