Sacred, Like Sylvia Plath

Today,
she spit your
words like your
own blackberries
and my,
my eyes cannot
help but swell
at the sound
of your suicidal
beauty—
(actions)
gaping open in
this wild abyss.
Your sad, soft
children
needed you—
porcelain dolls
left in the rain,
but your biological
need differs
only
slightly

Burden,
you
called
them—
just another
bee added to
this over-
populated box
we
call
life,
economy.

Lady
Lazarus,
your beauty
swells in
my eyes
like egos
in Auschwitz,
Buna,
Jerusalem.
Feline, you
failed nine
lives.

I
breathe
you
like fine air
sifted through
my mother and
I place you
somewhere near
Mt. Olympus or
the Elysian Fields
next to silent
Oenone—
weeping
for
Paris?
Ted?
or for
humanity.