BY Lisa Marie Basile

You are my secret habanero bloodstream.
When it comes to the morning,
I break the windows with my open eyes.

You are the wind wild at the glass,
what tornados sing I hear in you.
I let you have me for miles. 


The last skeleton wanted me to
bathe him.

There were no more sunlit days after this,
he drew the drapes and counted in every
language he could remember
un, due, drei.

His humanity fell from him
like ribbons, curling softly to
the ground. It was la
couleur de sang, so bright and
so true he was left pale without it.

He became so crude there in my arms,
hating me for my love.
His femur was beautiful in the water,
and by midnight he became dust.


Lisa Marie Basile was born in the Eagle Nebula. She is the founding editor of Caper Literary Journal. She will have her full-length poetry book released by Cervena Barva Press in 2012. She currently works with PEN American Center's Prison Writing Program and is an M.F.A. candidate at The New School. She's earned 1st place in both poetry and fiction from Pace University's annual writing contest. She's read at the NYC venues KGB Bar, The Back Room (with the Poetry Brothel) and hosted a literary event at Happy Ending Lounge.