in memory of sylvia plath.
that poets are like stars,
who burn and burn, years after death,
eternally holding back breath.
in the lone emptiness of space,
with your red, red eye,
what could you be looking at?
or are you watching us from on high,
mean-mugged, with a black baseball bat?
God in the sky, a pocketful of ash;
I think she tasted like Sylvia Plath,
I think she tasted like fire and rain,
to die and resurrect again.
the doctors resurrect the sad, sad girls
to play upon the playground in the dust
to tie their hair with ribbons in their curls,
to watch the roses rust,
to trim the buds.
ever caught in the act;
her head in the oven,
photo taken from the back,
babbling of Nazis, of blissful oblivion
I think I could revive you,
I could make you live again.
but my red hair was never on fire,
and my pretty round legs, never slashed
nor by some mad wolf desire,
did I ever eat the men from my past;
cannibal, hannibal, ravenous and sleezy,
we could be beautiful still,
or vanish forever, peaceful and easy,
a stain on a bright windowsill.