Raymond Fault, Los Angeles
Last night, the night-blooming thorn apple opened,
its white nightgowns strewn
along the edge of the road,
and hundreds of moths skipped from silk to silk.
We were tripping on mushrooms and I could smell my mother’s perfume,
Trigger-warnings around every corner,
the danger of our ordinary lives.
We stood on a precipice, overlooking the city, its dazzling lights
beneath the thick air of a storm
and its dark arts coming in over the threshold of the sea.
Thunder like gunplay in the canyon; lightning flashes
the chaparral and chemise, the flare in its bones ready to spark
at a moment’s notice. If I had one of those scrolls,
I’d put it in my mouth.
In the morning the news said a human head had been found,
right along the road we had walked.
Twelve hours ago, estimated time of death,
the features of the face, they said, still fresh.