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?
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.