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