Published in
1 min readMay 12, 2017
Inflammation of Memory
You are, to me, a legacy,
starlit nights casting silver shadows
on small violet petals
that peeked out to see the sun.
They snarled at shadows
and snared lunar light in their teeth,
licking beads of salt from cracked skin.
I pin bruises to your palms,
thick drops of lemon juice
slip-sliding down your hands,
twirling along the sides
of scabbed wrists; like an ice skater,
blades tearing creases into your fingertips.
Heavy lids press boulders against retinas
that compress in and out,
a mother’s womb.
This is how you are immortalized,
lacing gold through our holes
and sucking banes from our blood
in turn.