Speed Dating with Sylvia Plath

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Published  February 2015

feb15-ag_Page_43_Image_0001And I am a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And on the clock we have two minutes to speak.

What a tragic circumstance.
The lonely desperate crowd
Burns up for “love.”

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air

Wait, where are you going?
Oh, hello Round Eight.
And I am a smiling woman

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
That is to say: um, hi,
Eyes are up here.

What do I do?
I’m a riddle in nine syllables,
I’m a means, a stage, a cow in calf.

Your emerald eyes remind me,
When I was ten, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask.

This world is fleshed with idiot men,
Common as the strut of a slug.
But you appear, vivid at my side,

Love fiery enough to prove flesh real.
The body is a Roman thing.
What of your mind? Your dreams?

Your heat within, the flame,
incandescence of passion,
which—wait, what is a Brony?

Now curse the clock-strike!
Oh down the drain with all of it!
Barren, love is barren.

No, I don’t think they give refunds, why?
Wow, Round Nine already?
And I am a smiling woman…

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