Souls must grow warm before they grow great
Before they may speak
They need a fire to huddle against
Flamelight to flicker inside their eyes
Looking up into yours
With promise of something wild
Something imbued with duende
Words you don’t recognize
While father speaks the ghost
These things between your warming palms
are my fingers clinging to knuckles.
Throw your head back,
Sweet Succulent Sexual Dracula
This man just had two.