Lucrezia Lacked

All of the candles burning down so fast.

My feet are covered in blisters, full and round,
like paper lanterns,


I am sticky with orange salve.

I'll never end up like Lucrezia--

I don't know why I have her portrait on my wall,
the resignation of her face,
simple brush-stroke of a stab wound,

she is hanging on to the curtain,
she will do it again,
her hand on the knife is ready,

bits of pomegranate seeds
stuck in her molars,

a small good sweetness, brief color
in a barren gray life.

Lucrezia lacked, lacking in luck,
lacking in light.

Forgot to crawl beneath the sprawl
of the sun.