Elizabeth Kiem

We would like it if you would come out from under the covers to see the stars. We would like it if you would take the long route and drive just slightly unsafely. We would like it if you would stay for dinner, sleep in our beds, open the windows. Please put things back where you found them, if you don’t intend to cherish them. We suggest that you listen to jazz and opera, but sometimes, also, Vangelis. We ask that you find the change to buy our wares, and not hurry past into the singular smell of movement. We ask that you question the blood red doors of your hometown and the crypts of your wedding venues and the saints of your worship. We want you to choose sensation, not safety; learning, not leisure; gifts that are made, not bought. We would like it if you would swim downriver, three abreast and meet us on the platform, even if late. We would like it if you would dig the garden, weed the garden, admire the garden.

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We would like you to ask for details when you hear

that we are dead.