It Is Difficult To Live With This Heart

black heartBraless, backless, a little black
dress, obsessed with glory, with story,
a mess, lace and cotton
strewn from one end of the room to the next
a single gold hoop unhooked
and dropped into the top right drawer
and gone forever, wanting
more, and wanting more
a really shitty friend
I lent my favorite red headband, never
to be heard from again, a heavy
rain-soaked land, a mouth
that bites the blameless, aimless
vessel of aimless wrath, 33-year old
Sylvia Plath, mathless, beating
you over the head, lead-weight, dead-
weight, capable of half-assed sleight-of-hand,
now loves a woman, now loves
a man, lithe and tan
today, pale and fat tomorrow,
and borrow borrow borrow
no return, whose sorrow is
a single, stop-gapped sparrow, begging
the music of a lap-
wing, a skylark, singing the dark,
the flowing ark of that girl’s hair
every last strand bound by its scarf,
bringing the news:
the jet black imagined, unloosed.


About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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One Response to It Is Difficult To Live With This Heart

  1. Will Roby says:

    The first five lines here are among the best you’ve ever written. All metrics and rhythm, mayhem contained in a clever wooden bucket. In those first five lines the parallels between word-form and word-function dizzy me. It’s cotton candy topped with steel-cut oats. Nearly perfect. Almost perpetually in motion.

    Then the sixth line. It has to go. It’s a rotten plank. It shook the Oz right out of my ruby slippers.

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