Following Sylvia Plath
Two days before I open
my thumb on a dog food can
I find these lines in Ariel:
“What a thrill—
My thumb instead of an onion.”
Did the poem lead me to
the edge, the words
presage the deep cut?
No. We do not believe such
things. And, reading on,
I find the music I remember
so well—the rhythms
that led me into her aching,
signal verse. But, Sylvia,
you did not hurt me.
I bled, I bleed on my own.
Nor could I follow you
through that final door, the
one seemingly made of
light, but, in truth, is surrounded,
O with murderous shadow.
Beware of Darkness
When I fell
I fell hard.
The asphalt kissed me,
dislodging teeth.
But, friends,
this is the part I do not
tell. The darkness
assuaged my
simple loneliness—
I did not leave it lightly.
And it is there still,
a convivial barracoon.
Beckoning.
Little Heart
Little heart, how came
you to be what I rely on,
little canker, no bigger
than a lie?
[END]
© 2005 Corey Mesler - Contributor's
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