Succubus
Headlights scan across your closed vision, leaking mascara. The moon doesn’t move like that. A powder trail, a credit card bent toward somnambulism. Bees keep getting in through the closed window, drawn by the embers of your rib cage. The sage and cedar of your gutter mysticism. Always trying for a miracle to cleanse the leper. Or pizza grease on your vintage brassiere. And you just keep opening it for them. Another sweep of light crosses amber pools of frayed capillaries. You catalog the year, make, model, color. A door cracks like your lips, resolute. The moon doesn’t move at all.
Sara Comito is author of the poetry collection Bury Me in the Sky (Nixes Mate Books). She is a poetry editor for Bending Genres Journal. Her work has appeared in places like Pithead Chapel, Drunk Monkeys, Thrush Poetry Journal, and Defenestration. Sara lives with her husband, John, in Fort Myers, Florida, where they grow up chickens, bees, and flowers. Find her at saracomito.com