Sometimes late at nightwhen they’re done their roundsand I’m sure no one is listening,I speak to Sylvia Plath:
You’ve died before I had time—we’re much the same,though I may be a bit more of a Jew.
I’ve chugged red pills like cheap chardonnay,months and months of manic merlot,the sweet taste of candy codinglingers on the tip of my tonguewords slip like skittles down my throatunfinished, teeth stained blue.And you?
Bitter, bile, betterwork this timeif Dying is an art,like everything else,then I have failed art for art’s sake.
The second timeI double the dosage,abstract obstructionredblue blackpaint the whitewashed walls,crawl under Jew linensno space, no place,just that bitter-sweet tasteand waitto fadetoo black.
I have done it again.
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