LISA MARIE BASILE
When did this violet come
to take you away?
It shifts in places we cannot know. As roots below the earth
Let me hold you
in water, of water.
Let me wash you
from this coil.
Of suffering, you aspirate all over that yellow light
& white coverlet;
a collapsing. Even the summer broke
to you. How the fight
becomes kingdom. How dark blood
becomes clean once it stops running.
How life is a temperance of tears,
but not now. Now you can water your threshold.
You only have to make one decision:
the salt of the earth
You only have to sleep. You choose fire.
You do not have to breath.
Your organs are not chosen.
You go when you are not awake,
we wake when you have gone.
Your skin is free from poison.
In the smallest hours of night
I bend my knees. They take your skin with them.
Of day I lay my head upon the ground.
I crawl from water to land to mourn you.
They give your skin to those who need it.
You are the sound that lasts on and on, pulling
us through its veil.