1.26.2009

Heptonstall



Sylvia Plath, pale patron saint
of all this rising sadness, I must know
that this is the last life,
this unrepentant madness.

In Heptonstall the chalky door
of your smallest and final cocoon
bears the scars of the nails of virgins,
the glittery spots of dried-tear moons.

Someone has left you sugary sweet peas,
wrapped in thin pink paper. I hope
they did not wake you. I hope
there is no waking.

5 comments:

Cioara Andrei said...
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Kate Horowitz said...
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margaret said...

Plath is one of my favorite poets. I think she would have loved the simplicity and imagery of your poem.
-margaret

Kate Horowitz said...

I'm with Eddie, who liked the first two stanzas and not the last, but I'm unsure how to resolve things. I'd like to keep the whole thing tighter and more consistent.

Anna said...

This is so beautiful! I love especially the last stanza :)
Did you write this?


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