In response to Edge by Sylvia Plath

"The moon has nothing to be sad about,  
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag."
-Edge by Sylvia Plath


The night drips on and on
As they all just watch.
Wonder what got her so far-
What's got her in knots.
This is how they wanted her,
No denying that now.
Perfection in her silence,
Her last breath,
Her broken vow.
The moon has nothing to be sad about.

She looks down on her with apathy,
Just another face in the crowd-
They watch her as she scorches it
All to the ground.
Her body a vessel for pain and for persons,
Her mind gone numb from being treated so worthless.
The moon-
Having seen this all before,
Illuminates the horror within that small home
Staring from her hood of bone.

Although not new,
It is still tragic-
To see such a woman drained of all her magic.
To have once brought life,
The same that she has taken,
And now on her kitchen floor they all lie
Naked.
The moon just sends them back
To the roots of being- for
She is used to this sort of thing.

Life here on earth feels particularly brutal,
Like there is no escape
And to dream of such would be futile.
Don’t let it get you down,
For it is truly just womanhood,
You belong to the silence-
To the frowns.
So tightly sew that pretty mouth shut,
Sworn to be either dead or gagged-
Her blacks crackle and drag.

“over drowned summits.
Still white backdrop:
Scattered farms, spiked chapels,
dead ravines, dams motionless in blue steel.”

- Andrey Gritsman, “Last Day Of The Year”

There is no hill
Over by the way -
Rather, there is a
deep ravine that carves
Against the land and
Crushes, erases
In vigorous strokes
All who dare to
Stray too close
Over drowned summits.

As they fall and fall,
There is no forgiveness.
There is fear -
There is despair -
And then there is
The disappointing wash
Of pained acceptance
There is just one
Moment of pause, of
Still white backdrop.

The eyes roam over all
That there is to see
In a world that is soon to
Disappear; to fade into
Darkness and silence and
Whatever else awaits,
To take in the views
Of the living land
One last time -
Scattered farms, spiked chapels.

We travel deeper and deeper and
In the dark, there is a near-silence
That shocks to the core,
Moreso than even the loudest noises.
And finally, the grand finale,
The dull thump of a body
(No one hears it - does the tree really fall?)
And the padded footsteps of a reaper
Having come to claim it’s own - of
Dead ravines, dams motionless in blue steel.

"some bright nowhere
of broad fields and sunlight
that was my idea of heaven
one long afternoon"

“Night’s Thousand Shadows,” Christian Winman

Make yourself out of pieces
that don’t always fit
because not all puzzles
need to be finished.
Let yourself be good days
and bad days.
Days made out of
blanket forts and
Sundays and
some bright nowhere.

You don’t need
to ask for forgiveness
like individuality is a sin
promising God
that next time
you’ll get it right.
As if right is unwavering
and wrong can’t be fixed.
Life can just be made
of broad fields and sunlight.

Don’t grow old
as if age is
something important.
No one knows what way to grow
because up isn’t always best.
You can live in the sun
without reaching for light
Sometimes you can sleep
in the shadows of the grass.
That was my idea of heaven.

Don’t hide
behind a chorus
of the things you meant to do
like harmonized regret
pressed against the hope
that living
is following a formula.
Living can be
something simple, just
one long afternoon.