Abstract
Portrait of My Dead Mother's Nipples with Chemical Ash Alejandro Lucero (bio) She never wanted me to be a formula baby. I know my mother was cleaning herself up while I lived with -in her. A quick lease, I had to move out before the year was up. His nails turned gut nicks. Belly red with tears. She lied about feeling me inside her. Taught me to read palms pressed into my eyes. Showed me how to sleep in, never promise anyone my mourning. I'd steal her Pall Malls two at a time. Twist all the cancer out into that small pond of toilet water. How I wished those hollow smokes were her body. Filters where I latched my lips. [End Page 55] Alejandro Lucero Alejandro Lucero is from Sapello, New Mexico. His chapbook, Sapello Son, was the Editors' Selection for the 2022 Frost Place Competition, forthcoming from Bull City Press. His work appears / is forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, The Cincinnati Review, and The Southern Review. He is a senior editor for Copper Nickel. Copyright © 2023 University of Wisconsin Board of Regents
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