Say East

My world flips
the sun
dips on reality

(women in sapphired veils
so beautiful
it might hurt the world to see
even their eyes, those lonely
orbs, twin imagined moons

twin swords meet flesh

two rivers
converge in a crescent
and suddenly the essence slips
so suddenly we barely note
the change, and all of this is possible—

dichotomy from language sprung from flashing eyes that slash

black from white dark from light holy man
from wholly woman, one clash
and you become a channel I swim up, an interlocking part

one half of a broken heart dangling
on a tarnished chain)

and I am West. I must be.

Some privilege. Some broad
defining best of everything
that dropped me, lucky accident, right
here. This freezing day
in February, winter moon chalked on the morning
sky, fifty-one years to the day
Plath laid her genius flat
on a white tea towel
laid flat on a working oven
in a frozen London flat,
switched on the gas. Alas—

I would that I could rise
beyond these lashing tongues
a name abandoned
body out beyond discourse
no fluttering angel, no flying horse, no thing
with wings, but a body draped and riding
the rising
falling sun.

Advertisements

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.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s