Monday, February 28, 2005


Play the podcast.

This poem was inspired by Sylvia Plath (of course) -- but I was trying to do an anti-Plath with the rhythm, which is to say that there is no rhythm. But -- isn't that what you'd expect in a poem that is about electrocution -- a deliberate method of stopping heartbeats? You decide...


I drop the raw, live wire, plugged-in

into the pool of water where I am standing –

grape lips, scorched soles,

wired hair, convulsions –

remind me of you

in your touch inexplicable voltage –

the amperage is what kills

(or fails to)

and still, tears scar,

or didn’t I know that?

a room thick with charged vapor and wanting;

flames jolting the blue out of my eyes,

and yet the color refuses to budge

amnesia was the gift

this was supposed to deliver –

I can’t remember your name,

but the longing

is worse

than ever.