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.