Poetry Wednesday

Sinkers

He said,

“She took out all my insides

and hung them on the outside,

on all the lonesome ledges

she had loved

and hung from

and she put out all the candles

and she put out all the noise

and the moon got quiet,

she said,

‘to make it like the water,’

and I looked at her for answers,

and she lit up all my insides,

and she strung up all my questions

and I thought that it was madness, but

knew that it was goodness,

then

she anchored me to the floorboards

with spoons and stakes and newsprint

for which she had paid in pennies,

and the promise that she would do this,

and when I was all around us,

she lay there on the carpet,

and she stared up through my branches

and they were waving in the water,

she said,

‘I know what you are thinking,’

and she did.


Annnnnnnnnnnd, something not-mine that I love:

Dark Wood, Dark Water

by Sylvia Plath

This wood burns a dark
Incense. Pale moss drips
In elbow-scarves, beards

From the archaic
Bones of the great trees.
Blue mists move over

A lake thick with fish.
Snails scroll the border
Of the glazed water

With coils of ram's-horn.
Out in the open
Down there the late year

Hammers her rare and
Various metals
Old pewter roots twist

Up from the jet-backed
Mirror of Water
And while the air's clear

Hourglass sifts a
Drift of goldpieces
Bright waterlights are

Sliding their quoits one
After the other
Down boles of the fir.