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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