Last Supper
(for Sylvia Plath)
In the beginning
there was gas only
no gravity yet
to gather the tall cold clouds
no life to explode
like pain
on the absolute void.
Tonight we are back
where we started.
The skies grow monstrous.
The universe lacks cohesion.
Dead planets hang stiff
as bad ideas.
Oblivion sleeps in the folds of towels
I have folded in windows and drafty doors
claws soundlessly up the arms of a chair
to curl in my lap
like some terrible pet.
The good air is gone from this room
for good.
It is oozing to gas
like dream to nightmare.
Upstairs
with flared nostrils
a neighbor wakes.
Lullaby
sweet tenant
I'm only dining.
Though appetite wanes
to a breadcrust moon
though nothing is thawed
turn up the oven.
We fast tonight
on the fumes of old chaos
that churn red blood
to a thin bitter wine
ideal for toasting
the space between stars
where gas piles forever
in high black drifts
like the promise
and threat
of a new creation.
David Hall
Ft. Collins, Colorado, USA
Friday, December 1, 2000
The Sylvia Plath Forum is administered by Elaine Connell, author of Sylvia Plath: Killing The Angel In The House.
Web Design by Pennine Pens.