Monday, February 11, 2013

50 years ago t'day poet Sylvia Plath commited suicide...



If after all that— would I knot my tie in the same manner as your Ted?

Take you home, spread your legs, enter the

Split aerial, gold on my fingerprints blood bitten bottom lip

Don’t hesitate to harangue

Enter the place where all your poems come,

Be your mattress, you on top (so much shit they gave us once)

Plumsugahskies lid, lavender ships, my spring break, my circled ink calendar space

Buoyed matter, my little pinkie curled around your auburn tress, sloughed

Skirt blouse, heaped in androgynous dune, corduroy tangled afternoon

Where I tell you shit—

‘Don’t hafta turn the oven on 400 to stick your head in it—

To feel warm inside’- fairy child since he lied, kiss your July forehead

Paint your nails an amethyst blue, dew your tears and wet your hips,

Watch your fingertips come—


would I be like him, though?


Etonian fop, dressed alone, salutary, milk

Your nipples until a bad poem curdles, sully

Sunday alone, tweed, elbow patched, your name

In my jacket, your fluid on my handkerchief

Scent still life with a bowl of honey

Salt from my body, your eyes black as

Tacks pinned to that place where you would

Not let me take you.


Where you would not let me take you away.