Aubade by Liz Lyon

Aubade

for Eva

Like standing on a precipice whose edge is receding,

the dawnlight comes inexorable. We protest the sun

while still entangled in one another’s limbs. Suspend the moon,

fix the rotation of the stars, fury and fight, for we

are not ready to face this day. It will come fast-acting

to cut away our appendages, make us

piecemeal: four hands, four feet, a scalp

or two. Two spleens, three kidneys. One heart. Cover us

in goat’s blood and cleanse us

with mouthfuls of rainwater. Perhaps that

will make us whole bodies again – and separate. We may as well

be drawn and quartered into all our lonesome ways.

We might still protest the sun, but the day is ready,

and it is too late.

Liz L. Lyon grew up in the rugged Intermountain West and currently works in Salt Lake City. Notable life accomplishments include setting off Spanish house alarms, wrestling alligators, and jumping in European and North American bodies of water. Her work has appeared in The Literary Bohemian, egg, and Passwords Literary Journal. She received her B.A. in English from Scripps College.

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