Can you feel it in the bed, where cleanly buried
a worm moon in its high-noon velvet march,
swells, & smiles white & scrawls in
the hearts bough, a jack-knife digging in.
In one sink-beds brine, where it’s sunk,
pursed in the secret night; it wrote on
sunburnt meat of hard-surviving lads,
hammered down in casket nails, &
supping bellyfuls of bathtub gin, burning
– burning once, on fire easily as kerosine,
& just as gladly, snuffed.
A pink-fingered tree over love’s headstone,
thrust with its skinny leg-trunk lodged
in lush ferns, marauded by rabid wolf spiders;
the grave-bed of a long goodbye.
Samantha Lucero writes stuff, sometimes, and you can find more of her work at sixredseeds.com.