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Stinkfist
By Lisa Marie Basile
(for Aenima)
The half of me, in basement
stench, packing your last things:
my fingertips on emerald necklaces
and daguerreotypes of drunk dead family.
I felt loss for myself in the way that
an arm must feel under cold water.
Cut off, watch it wave farewell as it floats
toward the sea’s floor.
I held your hands like serpents
at the casket (everyone jeered),
the grief poisoned close enough
so you felt me
love you, close enough for my ego
to condense your death into
my own death; bits of the collective
bloom and fray.
To love the dead is to paint
water with fire. If you swim
underneath you might meet
God at the sea-floor.
Since when was God enough? We want to
keep our mothers alive forever.
Lisa Marie Basile is an MFA candidate at The New School. She has been published in several literary journals, including Word Riot, elimae, Willows Wept Review, The Foundling Review, and others. She is the founding editor of Caper Literary Journal and the author of a full-length collection as well as an e-chapbook: A Decent Voodoo (Cervena Barva Press, 2012) and White Spiders (Gold Wake Press, 2010). She currently works with PEN American Center's Prison Writing Program and is a member of the arts organization, The Poetry Brothel, where she performs poetry under the name Luna Liprari.
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