Aubade by Liz Lyon
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.