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.



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