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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.
~
Ahavati
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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