A rare, random descent
Stopped dead by a delivery of tulips,
As you plunged suicidal into
That red eye, the cauldron of morning.
Where the body hurt you as
The world hurts God and
The pill you took to kill the thin papery feeling,
Worked too well and swabbed you clear
Of your loving associations.
Lying on the frigid, flat floor
Terrified by a dark thing that slept in you,
Overwhelmed by the incalculable malice of the everyday,
Inhabited by a cry, "I'M THROUGH!" you spat.
Annihilated the decade, dissolved your old self,
Unloosed your griefs, fell a
L
O
N
G
W
A
Y
Came Back? Perfected?
Elaine Connell
Hebden Bridge, UK
Saturday, September 4, 1999
The Sylvia Plath Forum is administered by Elaine Connell, author of Sylvia Plath: Killing The Angel In The House.
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