I Sign a Marriage License with the Moss
Of course, you have sex in a puddle on this worn stone: your sperm travels to an egg flung from a wet velvet mass of more moss. But you’re also asexual by choice; you make more of yourself by breaking off new shoots. Though I won’t get to choose, I hope you fuck your way across my name in the graveyard, as I did once, parked in an oak’s shade by Chapel of the Chimes as Billie Holiday sang, love is just like a faucet. Now, I barely think of that boy, but the view of Oakland past the graves was lichen-blue. Beyond our car, deer bounded in pairs over the headstones, as if death were no impediment, just a hurdle to vault. I was seventeen and most of my life felt like nothing, but I wrote with a pen pressed so hard it scored the coming page with white words like names on graves, ground down to unreadable limestone divots. I know I will have a death certificate without my beloved named on it. She and I will be “strangers in death,” bound by our un-inked vows. Moss, will you be my last marriage? When I have no one as my spouse, can I have you, making my name lush, wet, and swollen on my stone? I want you to retrace my chiseled name with a heavy fist, bringing letters to life— stay pressed on me until you are crisp as pubic hair against the hand that tries to brush you away, when you are thin as dried ink, even when you are gray flakes across my name. Appears in Hover (Omnidawn Publishing, 2025)
Audio: Liza Flum reads “I Sign a Marriage License with the Moss”
Photo Credit: Quinlan Corbett
Liza Flum is the author of Hover (Omnidawn Publishing), a 2026 Lambda Award finalist in Bi Poetry and the winner of the 2026 Eugene Paul Nassar Poetry Prize. Her poetry has appeared in AGNI, Narrative, Meridian, Washington Square Review, Lambda Literary, and Zócalo Public Square. She is a recipient of a Barbara Deming artist grant, and her writing has been supported by fellowships from the Saltonstall Foundation, the Vermont Studio Center, Aspen Summer Words, and the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center. She lives with her family in the Finger Lakes region of New York.
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"I hope you fuck your way across my name / in the graveyard" -- BRILLIANT
Most poems that "stay on topic" this well end up missing the point somehow, whereas this one feels as true as human breath could carve itself to be. There are so many things to love (the sensory words, the tell-all candor, both delicate and transgressive, the circumspect though unaffected deer), but what I love most is that you really hoped, then asked, then pled with the moss, illustrating what it would be to fulfill a vow.