No Plath

It is 1956

A bird is crushed beneath our tongues

Absorbing fractured syllables

Arcs of fray


It is 1959

The azaleas, like almost anything, open up between slits of skin

Tenderly stroke the air

There is a man entirely dressed in black

Devoid of compass points, I crawl


It is 1961

Plums are indigestible, sorely picked from a laborious year

O’ I am humored with this

Weighted belly, a nurse stitches together

My new heart

It is 1963

Tomorrow is a terrible awakening

Hydras flood the mirages of idolatry

Life is all around me, digesting debris

Of love

No terminus, no eyelids to divide light and darkness

Thick whispers “how’s this?”

How’s this?