'In this light the blood is black,
Tell me my name.'
- Sylvia Plath
I forgot who I was under a tree,
The garish light
Filtered by fractured leaves.
The white knuckles at dawn,
Those dumb uncertainties.
Who is it? I say.
I am halfway to Moonrise ---
A quickening of utterances
Ushers me to the occasion
Of my own acquiescing.
I remember too much
To abort this freedom.
Tell me who I am,
Oh, furtive seekers of folly
Frantic in your love-drunk assertations.
I live, therefore I am loved ---
I feel the hesitation of it all.
Wet with regret and
Sane of a life within
An eddy of preservation
Where I remain white as of yet
And unfallen, unripened.
The fulfilling result of time
Drops like mercury ---
Lost and free to roam
The preemptory gravesite inhales
Here, now the moon has risen.
How the ripe fruit gleams.
If not here, then where, elsewhere?
That is the sanity of it.
The ripened corpuscles are breathing
The slack, sentient air of deliberacy in this ---
Hope's crawlspace, this failsafe attic.
A forewarned finisterre
Flutters its dust with
Each footstep, each crawl.
My fists are at my shoulders
And only unnattached to
Spun salvations, salubrious creations
In a maudlin room of my undoing, ungoing,
The regrets darken and fall in shadows
Cast by afternoon sun.
Then it goes dark.
What light to see by,
What dim cacophany
Planing along a mirrors edge.
I see the image dropping,
The ghasps of horror
The aubergine sighs
At the almost dead genesis
Of deformities doom
To self-containment and questions,
Who am I?
Again the tree with mirror-leaves, flat hands;
Lame and anteflexed.
I feel them lifting within ---
Is it mercy, a glint of regeneration?
The hands are buds of promise
Waiting to bloom after a torrential rain.
I saw the pieces of red heart-flutter
In the pools under fates sentence
And knew it was me,
Nameless and reflected so truthfully.
And it is in this reflection
I grow old, wise
A tedium of sentenary bliss.
Now I know what I hadn’t before,
I know the calling
And it devours me
Like a mirror facing the same old walls
Peeling its layers
Revealing nothing more than
What it is shown.
It is pink? It is pink.
The mirror told me nothing.
Nothing the calloused soles of my feet
Could reveal more deftly.
I feel them speaking
In undertones of remorse
In their grainy, silent language.
Silent wanderings thrown
Off cliffs of resplendence
Their despondent caves,
Arteries of inner sanctum to the unknown.
I never knew how such truths
Were thrown and hurled into
Winds of foretelling.
I never heard her story ---
The old woman who mirrors me.
I never gave her a chance.
I never gave her a grace.
I only stunted her in heavied removal.
And inside her: What never was ---
Flourished like the air
That dispersed in a hopeless storm.
The barren truth in these
Barracks of endless youth.
I glow white in this mucous of creativity
And I burst forth, my songs screaming
Bells peeling, voices drowning.
The real me that never was.
And she.. And she
Was all I had wanted to be.
I am a leaf,
I am many leaves
Fruiting green to darken.
Oh, purple death
How vividly you loom.
A Gorgons head atop a
And I, falling among the
Teardrops of its cold skin.
Shuddering, shivering, never alone.
A million things surround me
And I am consumed by them,
Their pert ears listening to my inquiries,
My shouts, my fits of animosity
Fly about my head like it is a
Cavern of Shadows and they are
Bats drinking the nectar of my synaptic firings
Glinting, wherein the white blooms topple
And fall in their heavy bearings.
What credulous rivers to flow like tributaries
Diaphanous and colorless like my mind
In the fluids of a final embalming of
a translucent albumin.
I know nothing
And the mirror never spoke
In its silver halls of reflection
Anything of such redolence.
I rattle like a sunflower
Reduced by seasons of atrophy
As my attic of self empties its harborings
And ejects its monsters
Even as new ones are born
On a horizons new dawn.
Shocked into being
I dragged remnants of an
Inner bodiless dream and propped them
On a mantle of decorum.
I wrote about them
Firing each synaptic advancement.
Dentrifications were olden
Whitening like bony promineneces
Surrounded by putrified remains of my days.
My hands were the bones
The pages were fallen leaves
The tree was a glass case to
View the montage ---
A mind on display,
Squirming in its oozing placental renderings.
Everyone shrank through the glass
I was encased under, and I got too big,
Oh, to go back to blissful smallness,
Puny obsolescent obscurity
As even the horror of such
Consumes my corridors
Within tree branches in overwhelming silences ---
The tree is mute, only the wind gives it a voice
And feathers escape its holdings, its capturings
Even it has no retention of
Its own inclinations to speak in
A fated, voiceless melody.
Clambering, I gazed upward.
Is this heaven, this reflection,
This desirous pandering to a white angel ---
The monstrosity reflects itself in multitudes
Endlessly repeating its same sad song,
And I churn out yesterdays in featureless catachisms
On a white slab of reckoning to be
Doctored into normalcy ---
A spy-glass surrenders its judgements like
The whole world in a raindrop is viewed
And the tree is protection
It is a jar of encapsulation
Of everything experienced.
Yet the tree drinks the rain, absorbs it
While circular glass only distorts it ---
The specimen within is white and pure
But hideous, dead and
Surrounded by black stagnancy ---
Like passive stars in a night sky
It only absorbs what it already contains and knows of;
It is a terminality of reasoning.
In this light I asked my name,
I prayed for a semblant image.
I spoke to the darkness and
Heard its heart beating,
Sloshing its essence into my awareness.
Under a tree was where I became enveloped
There I heard everything I wanted to hear,
I heard the leaves rushing, hastening
To know themselves in withered veins of treason
Which give up their lives in unreckoned ignorant bliss
Here the rain cannot surround me,
Enfold me like arresting fluid,
I decay regardless.
The words escape through osmosis to
Reveal a watermark of knowing I am
And I heard the confirmation
The storm tide of relinquishment ---
It all escaped me like birds fleeing slight movement
And the embrace was the cold logic of the mind,
Bluing its black inkwell in its
Jar of suspension
Ebbing its ledger of truth,
Not knowing to where it runs,
Not knowing its true self.
In this light,
My name was not uttered.