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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—


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  • HOME
  • ISSUE 12
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP