Manuel Antonio Salazar, Untitled
A Road Opener to Root
Myself Red
I should be more reverent, when babes I break open walk a red road.
Mystical fuckboy needs to heed all the queen mothers before soul is
lost forever the infernal woman who lives on my altar, weaving webs
and tsk-tsk-ing separation spells could use a new plot, or a soft hell.
A dirt, red clay below her feet comes
sticky like today, a humid glue I pull out of the sky’s cunt.
Purple golden auras asunder in the field where blood resides
waits to rain, weeds (the good kind) pop up like told-you-so zombies.
This is Tucson where the Gem Expo brings us what’s been kept deep
inside mines that no longer belong to us, unearthed. A wake of buzzards
inside the folds of skin touching membrane that coat my tongue
and the unravel of keloid undoing the braided embrace of flesh leave me tender.
Our mothers called them scars, a star map of our bodies, I have an app
to see them when I hold up my phone to my heart. I have no other means to see when
or how constellations make themselves clear. I’m cum drunk all the time
and you who never looks up from a swing set, et tu found ways to fell the taking of flight
into the ohm vortex, the dirt below the heroin above oh god the border crumbles
returned to feed. From dust I tether myself to stronger mattering, matting the curls
for leonine archetypes are my weakness resplendence like crepuscular ray tearing
into flesh or someday sunlight as reprieve behind my solar eclipse sunglasses.