Alternative Story of Saint Lucy
I can only think of her in small flashes because that is what it’s like when we fuck: pinpricks in my hands from heavy breathing, the world entering every pore. We test each other for malocchio; they say if a drop of oil in water sinks you’ve been gazed at enviously. So we drip oil between our river beds, where we part, and as it sinks in, we know we are cursed. One morning I feel myself illuminated with looking, blinking between my legs, our lust immaculate. I line my gums with parsley and a small sun falls out of me.
Alternative Story of Saint Lucy
My tits wore two pupils until I lopped them off and stitched my skin closed with the stems of eyeless florals: wild clover, purple nettle. My tits missed me, but only sometimes. They belonged to a swallow now. Threaded into nests like lost buttons. Prey-gazing and warbled. When a child came along to nurse me, he found instead two holes. If he looked through, he would have seen the sky, what it’s like before it turns blue.
