oh, sylvia
daddy and ted
weren’t
worth
it
Tag: Sylvia Plath
my oven has died
as my buoyant soul has no need for it
.
pulled to the middle of the kitchen floor
an asphyxia case in need of cpr
gasping
of a burned out ignitor
.
mr. repairman
is an hourn’half delinquent
of his 9 to noon service window
.
he made me miss my lunch date
.
i stand hand on hip
in a dress
from a November 1954 edition
of vogue magazine
my whimsy contained
by a tea length line of buttons
concealing
a cat on a hot tin roof southern slip
because i hold a firm belief
the maytag man should be met
with a combination of elizabeth taylor
and donna reed
.
sylvias’s ghost stands behind me
eyebrow raised commenting
“good thing you had no plans to make one of my dishes tonight”
i call her a tramp
we laugh like conspiring sisters
.
i
i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
thoughts of kissing me
sleep on disreputable futons
show up at hotel room doors
unexpectedly
.
just about the time
one of my gods said
i was coming close to my
howl
.
but i’m nowhere in proximity
.
upping the ante is perhaps required
my addictions too mitigated by motherhood
and the yolk of practicality
.
i’m not lesbian enough
i’m not disenfranchised
i’ve never been to france
i’ve never given anyone a hand job for a grant
ted hughes has not yet abandoned me
.
Categories
aerial
in my mind
and heart
sylvia plath
is the same shade of blue
as the bicycle
you built for me
thank you
i love you
i haven’t been 6
and able to fly
for so long now
she sits blue velvet cushioned
in the silver oval reflection
pinning her hair into an effortless chignon
listening to whispered revelations
filtered through david bowie’s singing voice
coming from the lips of the looking glass
as her piano fingers turn their attention
to tying a bow at the nape of her neck
lifting the bodice
of the white suggestion of a dress
it’s mirrored words fall amidst her perfume bottles
be careful my dear one
he could be your more tearful ted hughes
…a less crucibled arthur miller
Categories
suicide season
february 11th
took both sylvia plath
and my father
i’m not sure what life lesson
is to be gleaned from that
beyond the timing of suicide season
whatever god is
it has a sense of humor
either way
it makes me feel bitchy enough
to make a blonde cry for no reason
i should be terribly afraid
of all the ink and blood ramifications
of falling in love with you
we give up
the luxury of suicide
when we have children
it ceases to be an option
because you are no longer
living for yourself
oh, if only i could be more
selfish like sylvia
or as drunk as my father
today would be the day
i’d go join the other writers