The numbness wears away
the edges of the photograph
memory, blurring together colors until
it’s nothing but a fuzzy, faded mess
of what used to be.
Inspired by a post that said taking too many pictures while you’re having fun actually diminishes your ability to remember the happy memory.
she prostrates herself at the feet of the mother, a hymn to the dead on her lips. veils thin and the thrum of power echoes across the space between worlds, seeps through cracks and pours out into the night. a fog on a Halloween night, one that whispers of ghosts long past. it arches over the girl, words still spilling from her mouth.
in the darkened room, the fog is shadows. they shift and swirl, forming shapes that go unnoticed. and then She is there, lady of the underworld with Her crown of thorns and roses. Her smile is saccharine, too much morphine in the drip as it washes over the lovesick worshipper, a gentle hand tilting the girl’s face up. eyes wide, the words stop, the girl gazing at her mother goddess.
“Have you ever tasted death?” She asks.
from here, the girl can almost see the skull beneath the hair that covers Her face. “No,” she answers, the word escaping like a last breath.
the goddess’ lips pull back into a more wolfish smile. “Then let me show you,” She says, and leaves only a rose petal behind.
She walks through the streets unseen, eyes glittering with the flames of a thousand candles. It is quiet, the last of the costumed revelers at home. There are no stars, only orange lamplights that turn the night sky into a false daylight, the sliver of a moon the only thing visible. She smiles as she passes the houses, pumpkins carved with crooked grins, plastic skulls set out near doorsteps. Leaves rustle at her footsteps. She sees little children asleep, their sugary dreams taking hold as adults sit around the table, sipping tea and remembering times past. The wind is soft, a last breath as the night fades into November. She gathers a few cobwebs for her veil. Her time has just begun. And she has not been forgotten.
like golden liquid it drips down
to touch the leaves
already changing in the dying light
to match burnished copper rivers
chilled by winds brought on
by a dying sunset
when they say “the world is your oyster,” do they mean
i can pull it out, screaming,
from its shell
or use it to mass produce a milky white pearl
that will sell for hundreds of dollars one day?
do they mean i can exploit it,
dig it from its watery safe haven,
put it up for auction,
people’s faces pressed against the glass, saying
“this one, this one will do”?
can i collect a whole galaxy’s worth of people’s oysters
people who just left them there in the dark depths
of the ocean in space?
can i cook them all up or eat them on the half shell,
my lips stained with the tears of their inhabitants?
i think i’d like to make a pretty penny
off these oysters,
if i can
just to taste
the salt of emotion again
Oysters $20 a pound
Oysters! Get your oysters here!
rain across my skin that dries too quickly
(I hear thunder)
manicured lawns that die in the heat
(only cactus grow here)
and mango paletas that stick parched tongues to the roof of your mouth
(but they never tasted so sweet)
as the mourning doves coo in the evening light
(and the stars never looked brighter)