On Plath’s “Lady Lazarus”
A golden lotus marks your
grave, above a heart dry
and led by anarchy.
Tender as veal, precious
as an unripen plum, don’t
fall for the dark truth
that befalls all those
thrown into the hole
below the lowest, down
into the pit. Rise to your throne
and claim vengeance.
Your karma is catching
wasps that struggle to break
free and sting you.
If your fourth life called forth
the Almighty,
what will you do with your fifth,
with powers of the mad and stricken?
What will you do after your hundredth,
with gore and glory spent?
Rainwater
How the naïve flower tends
to the sky, as if facing its savior,
longing for the warm rays’ touch
on flat and tall green that beg
and pray for the shine.
Its true maker is around, through,
and beyond. The liquid pearls
drip to the dirt, tlick, tlock, like kisses
from the leaves to the earth.
The dirt births the buds and
decays those tired petals and watery
kisses. So pour down hard, bwak onto
the earth, until you’ve emptied
your veins onto the green rug.
Untitled Thermos
Lukewarm,
darkened remains of
masala chai rest atop the rims. I
cannot remember the original name for
this cup, just the brand name. It fashions a
cylindrical shape: thin at the bottom,
sloping outwards toward the
top in a manner that is
best described as
“x-cubed.”
Top lid
holsters a button
that, when triggered,
lowers a ball-shaped stopper from
the nozzle, allowing tea to pour through.
A side switch on the lid’s surface controls
a locking gadget, governing
the motion of the
ball stop.
