FOR THOSE POSSESSED BY SYLVIA PLATH
sylvia, i thought i was you
with hemlock pacifier and auschwitz
gray sky gray. you say
nothingness by cliffs of your father's
corpse. i crunch cornflakes
lustily and scorn the milk.
peel and peel like an orange
or an onion. i've never liked ovens.
those toilets of domesticity.
wind dances icy and bites
storm threads and i think of you.
a wild sort of gray.
theme: you wrote yourself out of
meter: steel clouds/november/dropped
maple tree/ pine tree/fir tree/sparrow/
verse: a wild sort of gray. a drumming
you felt but hid in the oven.
almost had it but at the last bell
you forgot to hand in the exam.
tone: dancing gray. rain. blackberries.
yeats. pagan easter.