Poems on Sylvia Plath by Top Critiquers

not a Captain Obvious
pirating La Santa Poetica;
but, a substantial armament  
potent enough to shift  
oceanic plates of belief  
     into something rabid
—a bottom prowler  
    foaming at the mouth—
hooked on the taste of poem  
 
The blood jet is poetry  
and there is no stopping it
 
because once infected
                           you're owned  
~

I have done it again.
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
A paperweight,
Peel off the napkin

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
Soon, soon the flesh
And I a smiling woman.
This is Number Three.

What a million filaments.
Them unwrap me hand and foot—
These are my hands
My knees.
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything...