after Melissa Lozada-Oliva

With a face as white as leche before the café,

With hair dark and straight like black velvet ribbons,

She’ll fuck you up ancestral style,

snipping off the heads of roses while

thinking of her scorners.

She has those cheek bones that could slice you

like a machete.

She dares you to ask her to smile, barely lifting

a perfectly plucked brow before

snapping your neck with her eyes.

Are her nails dipped in paint or blood?

It doesn’t fucking matter when you look
at her lips.


Like most madres, Morticia isn’t
        scared of blood
isn’t scared of what comes out of her.

Para ella, there are no safe words

        only conjuros

        only palabras encantantos
​
        only lumbre y moonlight.