when you become a parent,
you become less
a p p a r e n t.
until i disappear completely,
i can weep into the liquid face of a mirror
and speculate about who used to dwell in
my iron & carbon skull, before i was
the me that faded.
i held onto me like a movie ticket
in the back of my wallet
the one we all keep
that just becomes a tomb
like a placeholder in our hearts
for a special day we end up
i’m perfunctory now, roiling,
knocked up by rainstorms
and lightning writhing down like a noose
on his red beard, drinking snake oil
maybe the world’s a cat’s eye and i am shattered faith
my shoulders a hewn epitaph of hopes
am i lucid dreaming, i never fell asleep.
these days, i lie down in a trance
and never wake up.
[ Samantha Lucero is the phantom haunting six red seeds. ]
when did you keep god under your tongue,
an uninvited pill
from that plastic nurse behind a wall,
and reaching out to hand you an orange
in a paper cup made in L.A.
for whom did your milky eyes blur,
or from whose unseen stare did the water
of your ribs buckle and hide
when you knew that worship was a mask we
that rituals and skin
give us a tendency to forgot how to say no?
i was born in a summer cage that sold
whispers to me
in body-sized trash bags, flung at donation
trucks where you wait and
where you drive up and pry a hole, pull out
unwanted secrets you can take home
and cherish as yours from other people’s
unglamorous lives; a boy scout’s book
on how to make a fire.
a girl scout’s book about how to cook on it.
my heart’s in a shot glass that says
‘i ❤ san francisco.’
on the floor by a fireplace
in his basement.
and i think that’s where i swallowed ‘god.’
[Sam does sixredseeds.]
the man i loved who never knew
was tall like most men girls love & never tell
he was t h e unreachable one in missing scenes of my other life — one i could’ve had, but couldn’t, & now i can’t at all —
he was that untouched n a m e i never murmured aloud
a strangled sonnet that i would recite to a chasm in each yearning lover’s prison-grey heart, wet-eyed with a desert-tongue and a diamond gun,
because you’re holding the smeared organ
the holy medal in my scalded dreams, where no one can hear what i whisper into my own nebulous mind,
so i scream in my head when i see you,
even in this inner-woven world where i can confess
to the fake piece of you that isn’t really there,
i don’t, i wouldn’t dare.
[Samantha Lucero writes stuff sometimes at sixredseeds.]