Sylvia Plath is GOD
If you dissect a bird
To diagram the tongue
You'll cut the chord
A-r-t-i-c-u-l-a-t-i-n-g song.
If you flay a beast
To (m)(a)(r)(v)(e)(l) at the mane
You'll wreck the rest
From which the fur began.
If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You'll h a l t the clock
That syncopates our l.o.v.e
The smile of iceboxes annihilates me.
Such blue currents in the v|e|i|n|s of my loved one
I [h][e][a][r] her great heart purr.
From her l.i.p.s ampersands and percent signs
Exit like kisses.
It is Monday in her mind: morals
Launder and present themselves.
What am I to make of these contradictions?
I wear white cuffs, I bow.
Is this love then, this red material
Issuing from the s t e e l e n e e d l e that flies so blindingly?
It will make little dresses and coats
It will cover a dynasty.
How her b-o-d-y opens and shuts-
A Swiss watch, jeweled in the hinges!
O heart, such disorganization!
The s t a r s are f.l.a.s.h.i.n.g like terrible numerals.
A-B-C, her [e][y][e][l][i][d][s] say.