La palomita negra

Cómo eres, Frida?

The black dove

spine nailed

and pinned to spikes

of a vermillion cage

You were born out of

Tlazolteotl, Aztec goddess

head drooping in

a puddle of blood

La virgen de las angustias

weeps for you

and your lost child

still born under tears


¿Cómo estás, la llorona?

Crossing that river not

even Xoloescuintle can

save you

Quédate en el purgatorio,

los autorretratos de pena

So paint—

Paint it magenta

paint it amarrilla

paint it verde

Pinta lo que se quede

en tu corazón


Paint sin esperanza

force feed yourself

the slime of intestines

a mash of palvo and

churrizo a puree of

pollo and calaveras

de azúcar

only to regurgitate

it all—



What scratches inside

your wounds

Scrape it out

with your brush

The bristles are



Plasters that rip

the skin

with every stroke

every graze

Paint a wounded deer

and crown yourself

with antlers

nine arrows pierce

an already

deteriorated body

if you can only

make it to the lightning sky

you might survive

sangre trickles profusely

and carma says no

So you’ll stay in the

árboles, atrapada


They take

the scaple to

better you

(to ruin


No hay

un escape

No hay

una despedida


Pinta cielos made of

shades of naranja

surround your depleted

worn face with a

wilted sunflower

Seat yourself

one legged

¿Pies pa’ qué los quieres

si tienes alas para volar?


So lay yourself

on this

canvas and live


Solo vives acá

La paz se halla

en el fuego azul

que quemará

la casita rota


Quema el cuerpo y


los restos


Summer Suppers

You kiss me like the scent of lilies

Stargazed petals, magenta lips

White hushes your edges


I kiss you like the sun dreaming

Brushing the curves of your mouth

Curling your lips between mine


I brim over the horizon, over you

Amber-flows into clouds, into you


And you give me requited stars

In the shape of freckles on blushed cheeks

Wild gold silks about you


We kiss how summer suppers

Evening. Weaving its way through

Murmurous leaves with tongues of air


The scent of lilies permeates

A glowing meadow of rays

As our lips form crescents

Against the weight of night

Twelve-fingered Witch

My mind is a twelve-fingered witch

rearranging air into flames—

learning innumerable routes

to your caves filled with sizzled sin.


My dreaming is disaligned, pinned

in a shadeless tree, lonely and

misunderstood. I bite the wind

like a black god of the desert—


and volts of blue light snap my woods

out of sight like a white prophet.

Your waved hair silks my ribs—gets hold

of my roots. I found your nude thigh


in haunted villages, ashamed

where the night suppers the last days.  

La diosa española en San Andrés, Cholula

Sometimes she nuzzles her head in my breasts

“I just want to make home here” she says


Sometimes she grabs my ass

“You move like a fuckin queen!”

her hands caress my hips as we dance

salsa, figure 8 figure, I figure she wants

me. But she’s fuckin the Jewish guy from

Colorado.  “You need some flavor in

your life,” I tell her while we walk down

Camino Real, dodging Cholula’s construction.  

“Oh, but he’s cute.”

She grabs my waist to hug me and smiles.


Sometimes she lays her head on my hip

bone while Noah, the white guy, lays his

head in her lap.  “I’m your favorite American, right?”

I ask.  “Yes, but Noah’s really cool too.  He has a


“So what, I have poetry.”

“I write songs which are kind of like poetry.”

I don’t argue. He has a point.

I call him “suckypants” from now on.

The three of us lie in the grass by the lake

bathing in the sun and I imagine her without

clothes lying between my legs.  


Sometimes she quotes poetry and calls me

“Beauty and Truth”

She majors in literature. “I fuckin love

Emily Dickinson!” she tells me over and over.

“I am Nobody! Who are you?

Are you Nobody too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell!” she grabs my arm

tight with conviction.


Sometimes I share my poetry with her

ay, no hay más para darte  

because I am lost and no quiero

que me encuentres, solo que te quedes

dentro de mí con tus árboles, cálidos

y dulces, como el verano se cae

en las hojas de carmesí y ambarina.

“Joder, Lucrecia, I fuckin love it.”


And sometimes she invites me over.

Her eyes are bright mahogany and brimming.

She has a completely withered red

rose in a Ciel water bottle sin agua

on the desk by her bed. She has raven black

sheets. I move her backpack out the way and

sit. She talks to her plants outside her window

She has a plant with yellow blossoms in the shape

of tiny purses that remind her of her abuela.

“They’re so fuckin dry!” We’re in the center

of Mexico, in the mountains, the air

is arid and the sun is stark, I tell her.


Sometimes she reads me Mexican poetry

in her Spanish accent.

“I fuckin love this poem.”

She takes out her bag of tobacco to roll

her own cigarette but she’s out of paper.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck”

She digs and digs in her purse and pulls out

a pre-rolled cigarette and lights it. She blows

the smoke away from me as she reads


Hay un tigre en la casa

huele la sangre aun a través del vidrio

percibe el miedo desde la cocina

The smoke swirls and I lean in to take

it all in. Her accent. Her tongue snaking

through her teeth. Her essence. Lilith.

Los crisoles de saliva emponzoñada

de sus fauces.

The burning tobacco fragrances fresh

light and inviting

Ni siquiera lo huelo

para que no me mate.

I think of the pink tiger in this room.

Hay un inmenso tigre encerrado

en todo eso.

I imagine if I close the door what could take

place.  Her voz excites me, I wonder how

she moans. Noah knows. Suckypants.

Que tanto y tanto amor

y tanto vuelo entre unos cuerpos

The cigarette has burnt out now

but the scent lingers on her lips

tanto imposible amor inexpresable,

nos vuelva tontos, monos sin sentido.

I fantasize her cuerpecito vainilla against

the raven sheets, unshaven and full woman

I dream of her contrasting with my bronze, tangled

Es esto… lo que duele.


Sometimes she tells me about her French ex-boyfriend

and I tell her about a recent Brazilian ex-lover.

“These people, they’re explosions in our lives

atomic bombs and we’re left with sizzled skin,

flames still brewing us deep blue,” I say.

She lends me an anthology of Mexican poets,

Sometimes she reads a poem from her journal.

“Do you do collaborations?” I want her

Spanish to swirl with my English.

“No, I don’t think about it.” She looks down, shrugs

and throws the journal on her bed.


Sometimes she takes me to lectures for literature majors.

Most times I just want to fuck her.



Green hazel eyes

pierce and sting

irises of dew-covered mornings

or freshly cut spring grass


Against my black marble eyes

you reflect then

drown or rather, I rise anew

I like to think that

you reinvent me


with every shock of

piquancy that

make home in the pores of

my flesh


Sweet hazelnut against

crimson copper

Muérdeme para que puedas

probar el sabor de ti

dentro de mí


Tus labios están hinchados

por mis besos y no me disculpo

So I bite and bite porque

tus labios y lengua me dan vida


Si yo soy la rueda de malemolência

tú eres el eje que me gira

vueltas y vueltas

I only stop to kiss you

Spirals and Coils

I have an obsession with memory. I love how she weaves herself throughout every layer of my being.  I wouldn’t be human without her– the laughter, the tears, the tangled web of emotions.  This prose poem was inspired by the beautiful poet, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, who also has quite a few pieces on memory and her relation to history. Enjoy.

Spirals and Coils

Memory lies in scents of vanilla, my mother taught me.  I can see her in front of me, nude, dressing herself in 6am skies getting ready for work. Vanilla woke me up just in time to see the bright sapphire of the sky competing with the worn, flickering closet light bulb to smooth over her caramel curves. Vanilla is remembering what you want you can’t have.

Memory is seeing your father for the first time and seeing yourself. Memory is the ripple on flesh from the rigid edges of a blade or fourteen needles.  Shades of vermillion, turquoise and sea foam green.  I like the color lime green because I wore black for too long.  Sometimes I remember my orgasms by color.  She wears gold flakes that sparkle in fire under loose moonlight while sharp circles of sorbet orange envelop her, even the taste.  She crawls between my legs and screams out my lovers’ names. Some names I cannot speak because memory is right around the corner.

I found memory in the cracks of my mirror.  Between beauty and blood. In the morning, I dress myself and wear her around my neck like a 6ft scarf. Made of heavy wool.  She delights herself on my smooth skin, roughly biting and kissing my neck. An embroidered necklace of amethyst and ruby. At night, I uncoil and unravel her, yet, somehow she has engraved herself in the fibers of my linens. She seeps through the roots of my coiled hair and I bow down to her in my dreaming.

If I’m by myself, it’s just me and her.  She plays in my hair.

She’s flesh that won’t smooth over.


–Luecretia, the esoteric

Close Between

If those chipped peeling walls could tell

Their blue frightening and closing in

(I seem to have a thing for bathroom scenes

The close intimacy, the raunchiness, the locks or lack

Thereof.) She held the door closed as I went down

She tasted of Victoria’s, Bohemians, and trembling ecstasy.

If those baby blue cracked walls could tell

How much I loved her, how much I breathed for her.

To part her lips with my tongue, her hands through

The tiny coils of my hair reminds me of yellow

Sparkling over a deep sea. I’m floating and she’s my wings.

I could’ve had more but the party’s over and 2am skies

Bathe the night air. I’m close to anger when she cries for him.

Across the street I sit and listen to the saddest guitar

While she sobs drunken and absorbed.  Yo respiro.


–Luecretia, the esoteric



Inspiration: Daily Prompt: But No Cigar

En la llovizna con ella (Poem)

Her thin pale hands took in mine

We’re lying down on a white mattress

In La Casa Roja, the fiesta has just begun.


My hands are heavily worn from manual

Labor; hers are permanently burned from

Los cigarritos she tries to smoke end to end.


I’m wearing bright pink acrylic and her nails

Are bitten down to the bed. In that moment

I realize how high I am and the Mezcal is alive


Squirming through my limbs. I’m exhausted—

Running around Puebla en la tarde, en la llovizna con ella

I’m still soaked with fervor as she tangles our fingers.


She leads me in the bathroom.  I have to go but

She kisses me.  Her fervent lip between mine

Reminds me of smoking my bowl back in the States.


She lifts my bra and I feel my way in her turquois tights—

I bite her. Oblivious to the crowd outside waiting and

Banging. She whispers my name, then licks my neck.


We giggle like two small girls and take our piss

Washing each other’s hands.  She fixes her hair

In the mirror— our smiles cross.  We’re smitten.


She opens the door and I don’t see her for another week.

She’s already in love with someone else.

“I should have kissed you longer.”


–Luecretia, the esoteric ❤


From the Daily Prompt: Ripped From the Headlines

Zora Neale Hurston, ” Genuis of the South”

Today, we celebrate the 123rd birthday of one of the most influential women in American history. I have to say that I am so grateful to Alice Walker, who went on a vigorous journey through the heat of Eatonville and Fort Pierce, Florida—dodging snakes and insects, all the while, acting in disguise as Hurston’s niece, in order to revive Hurston and her story in the early 1970’s. There, under the searing golden rays, Walker was able to find Hurston’s grave (or the general vicinity) and place a plain gray headstone that read:





1901                1960

Zora Neale Hurston, being all those things above and more has taught me about my own history as a woman of color and to not be ashamed of our varying accents and dialects, our way of telling colorful and vibrant stories, our way of still prospering in spite of white folks’ best efforts of striping our culture, history, and humanity. Living most of her life in an all-black town (Eatonville), Hurston never experienced discrimination because of her color growing up. In this light, I believe she was able to have a real sense of pride in her color and people that blossomed in every space she stepped foot. Hurston was vivacious, “funny, irreverent (she was the first to call the Harlem Renaissance literati the “niggerati) [and] loved to dance” (Walker, 87-88). She measured the size of black people’s head in Harlem to see if there was a correlation between the size of their heads and their intelligence.  During that time, white folks perpetuated this idea that blacks were unable to hold the capacity of intelligence because their heads were too small. She was adventurous, traveling to Jamaica, Haiti, and Honduras for her studies.

Most importantly for me, she opened up dialogue with my grandmother.  Just over this past summer, I had the pleasure of finally picking up Their Eyes Were Watching God. A book I’ve been dying to read, but with the stress of classes, assigned readings, essays, research, thesis, and working 30+ hours a week, needless to say, I never had the time.  What I love about Their Eyes was the vivid language of the dialogue which makes up about 50% or more of the entire book. Though difficult to get through the spelling in the first chapter, I quickly caught on, because little by little I was being reminded of how my grandmother speaks:

“Dey gointuh make ‘miration ‘cause mah love didn’t work lak they love, if dey ever had any. Then you must tell ‘em dat love ain’t somethin’ lak uh grindstone dat’s de same thing everywhere and do de same thing tuh everything it touch.  Love is lak de sea.  It’s uh movin’ thing, but still and all, it takes its shape from de shore it meets, and it’s different with every shore” (Hurston, 182).

On a visit to see my grandma in NE, Washington DC, I told her that these characters especially Jane, the main character, reminded me of her. Though, never hearing of Zora Neale Hurston or the famous novel before, she went on to tell me about how it was growing up in racist Fredricksburg, VA in the 40s and 50s. She told me how she slapped a white girl that called her a “nigger,” but then later on became the babysitter for her child in her late teens.  She laughed at the irony. She continued into the night about her friends, and how she would go on base to meet military men. My grandma just like my mother and me never knew her father. “And donchu know, I walked err’day passed ‘im? Yis, chile, err’day walkin’ to school. ‘Til uh neighbuh toll meh.  I askt ‘im and he said ‘yea’ and kept on workin’.”

Not to say this conversation wouldn’t have taken place if I hadn’t brought up Their Eyes, but I know in that moment, I was so thankful for this novel, so thankful to be able to get pieces to a puzzle that I didn’t even know needed fixing.

We live in the kind of society where it’s acceptable and expected to try as much as possible to get away from our black history. No one wants to be descendants of slaves.  Rarely is it acceptable to embrace our colorful vernacular so we code-switch in order to get a good job or wear our hair straight because it’s unprofessional to embrace our natural coiled and spiraled locks. They tell us that we have to speak, act, and be a certain way in order to be a “decent/proper” person.  But Hurston didn’t care about all that.  She loved her roots, searched for them, collected them, and gave us something to be proud of.

So Happy Birthday, Mama Zora. You are ever-changing, never lost, and beautifully infinite.

–Luecretia, the esoteric ❤

(NOTE: I know this is a day late.  I was so looking forward to getting it on January 7th)


Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. New York: Harper & Row, 1937.

Walker, Alice. In Search of our Mothers’ Gardens: Womanist Prose. New York: Harvest Books, 1983.