SYLVIA PLATH MADE ME DO IT: A story in verse

Other sample poems from the book can be found here:

Pink Cotton Candy

Debbie's Canzone

Contemplations

At the Pool After Closing Hours

CONTEMPLATIONS
taken from Sylvia Plath Made Me Do It

I. Razors

Their evil smiles glow
when they sense the blue skein
of sonorous veins under the skin.

They are familiar with contours
of the neck, of the jaw, of the wrist.
They ache with a crimson tenderness.

They gleam under drugstore lights.
They are interested in the science
of bloodletting in tiny spurts.

They glint well in deeper wounds.
They are after all scientists
of the quavery suicide.

II. Fumes

With wetted towels packed
into the garage’s slivers
of afternoon air and sunlight
between floor and door,
it would be sweet to smell
the new air. I would breath in
the vociferously quiet gases
as Dad’s car hummed lullabies
for my final sleep. I would
be careful not to eat a bite
at least a few hours before
so I would hunger more
for the sickly air of nausea.
I would be dizzy with weirdness,
a happy tiredness. A fog
as heavy as his thick back
would take me like he thought
he could. I should dance
madly in my death aerobics,
peel off one inch after another
until I am utterly perfect
for adoration in the casket.
O fumes, sweet fumes!
Come on out of your gray hiding,
out of the choked exhaust pipe.
I await the waft of your kisses.

III. Aspirins

Under the unbroken seal
of our childproofed caps,
we await the uncorking.

We were born to speed up
enzymes, color blood cells
and leap across synapses.

O so many of us would love
to race against each other
down the squirmy waterfall,

down to the stomach’s cesspool.
Our oxygen adds acid bubbles
and we giggle when it tenses

into swallowing stabs of pain.
We white crumbs mesh against
each other in squeezes.

We win the emergency room’s
grim respect as they pump
out the bog of helplessness.

We do not have a conscience.
We were measured to run against
time, the power of the stomach.

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