perching on my face, a scorpion molds out of husk, her claws grazing a nose rawed by coarse air. fused milky venom over the crib to embrace me, womb-like. bulbs on her stinger, tender, rubbed the yellow off of week-old skin. on a vision edged hazy with vernix, my body feeling abundant. after she metamorphosed into languid breasts and veiny legs, i, child, morphed, too. with it, an umbilical cord snaking around my neck. her hands quick as mirror, as knife glinting with sweat. milk in the air rotting, cleaving with the sheer voice of a woman. a woman. a caress, lovely warm with clotting black. menstrual blood one and the same, until her body stopped draining itself and she cut my bellybutton open to take back what's hers. already, i feel my throat heavy with rosy pink violence. love boiling, acrid, the color of limes and a dancing woman. dancing. spanish pretty like her old photographs. in her mexico, suicide is a synonym for motherhood. a hell void of niñas. scorpion perching on a dante’s tree perching on her love, black leaves rustling with spanish curses and cooling juice.
Luisana Cortez is a Mexican-American person that plans to study English at the University of Texas at Austin. She is interested in magical realism, tacky jewelry, and films. Her works have been previously published in The Harpoon Review, Ghost City Review, and yell/shout/scream journal. She tweets @gothicwriting.