“she brings curses” will be featured in “entombed in verse: an epitaph for salem.”

some months ago, i wrote a poem for an anthology chiefly interested in salem history (no, not this one!) and it was accepted for publication. it’ll be featured in the upcoming book named above. you can find more details about it [HERE]. that will apparate you to a pre-order page, but you can read the gist of the atmosphere of the book. and yes, i did just use a harry potter term.

i am so fucking delighted about being in that book. i love salem. since one of my best bitches lives not far from there, i’ve gone plenty of times. salem also has the best indian restaurant EVER IN THE GALAXY (besides the one in california i used to frequent in my past life.)  it’s called passage to india, and if you’re ever in town, go.

i’ve also always been fascinated with the history of the place, which should come as no surprise considering i adore most all things macabre, relating to behavioral psychology or criminal as a bonus, mysterious and wretched in history.

the title was inspired by the username of a past writing partner of mine who i loved working with, who is one of the best writers i’ve ever met. she used to write as a witch and i as a magician in our stories. she knows who she is. although, she may never read this.

here’s a small excerpt:

She is the ratty crone who dwells in tears
intruding up the mildew walls of sick-dreams,
like howling veins bulging for a snake-bite
shuddering to the open grin of a white moon

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.