next-day sore, fabled romance memories we’ll never have again hang themselves over the morgue of my shoulders. they sling there on the murderess hews of my collarbones like a noose. over the rubble of me like a shapeless dress, they cling. my sadness is a one-size fits all.
there’s a bad mystery of stitched up, prayer-words smothered & held hostage underneath the humid crucifix game of your nails. maybe we could be in love. your calloused hand, my beating throat. memories are ghosts that can physically embrace me; embrace us.
like dirt-sweat in a ghost-tour day of that hot mouth street in New Orleans, where the grinning specter-folks wanna stay like pasted gaslight posts in booze-colored hurricane beads. where there’s oiled-up candles in the balmy night lining decatur & quivering tarot cards in a sweaty palm telling me i’m meant for greatness. hail the votives for a virgin or a saint-chief, & watch palpitations at every pop-up table. my black boots on powdered sugar all over the concrete long after sleep should’ve gently tapped, hold the the dust of cemetery reflections & the 24/7 menu of the cafe du monde.
meet me for smoke, insomnia, primordial love.
you don’t need the blonde smiling photograph of her burned onto the back of your eyelids when things go wrong for us.
i don’t need the memory of him sewn to my back like a corset scar, like an unhealed secret.
we can make our own memories now. let’s erase them.
let’s erase it all & grow old
in the sweet, warm arms of new orleans where desperate, spilling souls belong.
[Samantha Lucero is an unseelie that has a nursery of shadows at sixredseeds.]