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Blood jet is poetry: after Plath

     
Blood jet is poetry: after Plath
And here you come, with a cup of tea    
Wreathed in Steam.    
The blood jet is poetry,  
There is no stopping it.   
~ Plath  
    
Your poems: I feel like I enter a forest    
of toothpick trees, a rigid summer    
where shadows fossilize
the lungs of poetry asthmatic⁠—    
wheezing air does not absorb;    
but, there is a silence here⁠—  
I do not feel alone.  
    
I seek artifacts, pooled    
in the sweating hollow of your verse  
I read and read and read  
while their prison'd orange contrasts  
the etiquette of embroidered lace⁠—
tablecloths, crumpets and tea
 
white-gloved pinkies
attempting to mediate
nervous chatter of saucers and cups    
over the infidelity of an oath⁠—  
over the drought of belief
and drying roots of a rose bush  
    
'There is no stopping it' ⁠—
blatantly excused ignorance
    
I mind my manners out of respect:  
right foot over left, intentions  
shaded by a wide-brimmed hat;  
steaming skin contained  
in an apricot scarf⁠—⁠
polished silver service  
tablecloth stiff with starch  
    
The blood jet of poetry  
a sanitary napkin in my lap⁠—  
my phallic posture smiling
hard, and politely erect.  
~
Written by Ahavati
Published | Edited 27th Nov 2019
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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