Emilia Hamra

iztaccíhuatl 

this is a cult— 
when you blame my face 
for the shadows that fall upon it 

when you eat my love 
but wont lick the gray of the outcast 
that lavas up under my eye 

you only believe me at my lucky angles 
or in pink light like volcano iztaccíhuatl 
incarnadine with absence of sun 

im glad to know im most photogenic 
when im closest to my soul 
when i dont let my lips tumor into lies 

but i know you would have loved me just a little bit more
if my cuticles werent so frayed 
with all the nervous fire in me— 

nothing more real than that— 
if the shade of a lobster pin 
hadnt ruined my lips just then 

i know i wont be your most beautiful lover 
but still i cannot locate my own lie 
now let me tell you something 

nature is the only truth 
and this means truth is in the dryness 
of deserts and too many kisses 

truth is in the gloom of perineum 
and in my natural curiosity— 
which eye of mine did you love more?

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Born in Arizona on an Aries new moon, Emilia Hamra now lives in Philadelphia where she founded The Shoutflower, a print journal of delirium and dream. She studied Creative Writing at ASU, and was the recipient of the national Norman Mailer College Poetry Award.