Loose

I have thought of creating a table
like a coffin, like Plath’s writing table,
a wooden smock of words.

I will weigh it down with a typewriter,
old and sagging on top of the table
like Rand’s egoism, like egoism.

My desktop, an opening to her coffin.
It is no different from Plath’s bastard father.
It is no different from her black telephone.

I will place all of my glory flat like pride
on top of the casket desk. It is my paperweight.

I will stand on the table with force,
pressing the trash to the bottom
of the waste bin, one foot more
forceful than the other.

She is clawing and pushing and whispering,
and I dare not lift my glorious typewriter
paperweight to release her.

I reach her through written telepathy,
her hands outstretched and begging
to take me like two sprawling legs of a whore.