For Plath, For Love, (Don’t…)

let us then recite Plath
let us wear white bikinis and smile
let us sing mad-girl love songs and in its rhymes
search a thunderbird, hold the bird close
dip into its heart, tasting its blood, mine, yours
let us find these Hughes-like men who love
deeply, amorously, thick-honey words
that choke so well, filling us, filling us
with still, deep water, cleansing and drowning,
who twist deep into us, severing
every self-belief, every little hope we have
burning away the mind-body-soul chain
Let us write, write crazily into the night
and let our words howl in the still dawn
and let us then open the oven door
and lay the body in, breathing in purist like
a single strain of air, lying still, lying
while our children are in their beds, dreaming
                                                                                             dreaming.