Lacy Cunningham

New Moon in Capricorn

All new things are born like lamb skin.

The garden is a mirage. My tender bones are wrapped in ink-blue velvet. I
hold it to my face, all of my architecture, breathing memories of flaking red
brick, a sidewalk stained where it crumbled.

[there was that one time, the time I tried to turn out my lights, running
through alleys at midnight, running the
electricity out of me, I thought I was outside of everything until sunrise
pulled me home]

The warm wood shines like a fractured shell. One pale slice of sun cuts
across a naked wall. Every seven years, my cells settle in the little open
mouths of each crack. In St Teresa's ecstasy, I burn like a golden goddess
with the black magic of creation in my womb.