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Basia Wilson
Spill
“I’m not in love with anyone, but what else can I call the way I buried my face in the purple salvia plant in the bouquet I got from the farm share.”
— Taylor Johnson, “June, DC” All summer, I’d carry home the frilled flames. I was not in love with anyone either, but what else could I name the thrill? Holding in my hand the hot blossom, I was enamored with its very name. The way the long As leave me no choice but to open again & again my mouth, like some god said, Say ‘ah!’ Flor de calabaza— Quick, I’d slip & pluck the plump stamens: find, like a bee, the entrance. Exalt the snap. Powdered, pleased. The flowers heap the bowl. Petals fervent gold with a bright bolt of green. Heat blesses them with this bed- head look. Wrung & spent. I sunder these sunsets & feel so gladly animal for it, the way biting in- to an apple I feel like a brown pony & will stomp my hoof at the good- ness of the fruit, the goodness of the hand giving & giving it. I feel animal: clueless, perfect deer when this flower’s fabric dangles from my lip like a torn sun- dress. Animal & better than how I feel when I find myself yet again under a thundering sky. The sun finds me a pleasure to have in class but such storms say I could stand to participate more. To open & be tongued by the hard, godly light. To be held in place by each ultimate bolt. To attend lightning lessons & bring the bowl of me to this basin of non-stop astonishment, to let it fill & over- fill, the water running & running— |
