A Letter to Your Scribe, Upon My Death

by Brianna Sulzener

Record the day I die, record the hour,
Record the method and do be graphic.
If I cowered before the axe-man, mark it.
If I let the horizon hold my gaze, describe
The horizon, and if it looked like a smear of ash
On gravel, like the kind of sky that isn't worth dying
For, admit it. Be empirical in your
Account—Don't write that the day I died
Feathers flew blue about my face and
There was a great finding of a great peace.
Don't plant flowers where there were none.
However, if your master asks if I spoke,
Though you know of who and how I spoke,
Lie. Say I was mute, say they cut out my tongue 
before I could remember his name.

Brianna Sulzener lives in Iowa City, where the cold is coming in. When asked to name her favourite fruit, she said "It's tough to find a a plum at the right moment of ripeness. Most plums fall short. But when I do suss one out — plums. A perfect plum tastes like paradise."

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