Pics on my phone don’t cut it and this poem, Hours by Samantha Lucero, makes me miss photo albums deeply.
becoming empty; the shape deflates, the air comes out like water.
It starts to breathe it’s own small breath in the shape of a person,
someday a man, a woman, sometimes swollen, sometimes
stiff, stark, or bleeding.
Seeing those photos one day,
your nose has memorized leather and tobacco flower.
for her, it’s dr.pepper, Disney on ice
the cotty musk she never knew she had just inside the pi of bone.
samantha lucero 2017 ©
