Sylvia Plath

We ache for the complex
Combinations
Of her pauses
And the sighs of eyes
Silent in their verse
Glimmering with insolence
Or guesses incapable
Of knowing
The difference between ashes and
Death
And what comes
Before

The ordinary
Was instructed
Into our malleable minds
Like the hum of a stalker
Silent in its terror
She is laughing at us.

Manic

I wanted to live a normal life
Without the loss of breath and heart
But there is too much
Thirst
Clutching
The brittle skin
Of me

Each tearing
Sticks to my ribs
Shredding the tissue
Lining
Of my thoughts

Even the cats
Stare at me
As though I am plural
Ripped
Into a different direction.

Scratched

But I liked being sick
In the south
Of France, loved
Even after I'd stolen
Five francs to buy a frozen
Milkyway after school, and friends
Were water to wet
The hard skin
Enveloping my angst

I wanted to be a stone
To kill
The cancer flaring
In my mammie's lungs
But there were always
Pigeons

With darting eyes
And sharp claws
To doubt

The balcony
Was too high
The air too thin
To catch
Falls after dinner.

I always thought I knew
The white rain I bathed in, soft
Soapy words from the AM radio
At one o'clock
In the morning.

Circle

She lives to nibble
At the core
Of sharp, polished curves

Each bite,
Is a morsel of soft lust,
First fissures
And ample harvest moons

Surprising revelations
Suck
At the center
Of her

Like a cliche
Wet,
Deep
In the dark crevice
Of its cave

The nimble rummaging
Becomes desperate
For the hearty bite
Of a corner.