Sylvia Segmented

Paul Iasevoli

Oh what a thrill…of pink fizz

this is for Plath

as words rip

through her consciousness

leading her to Yeats’ oven

to blow out the pilot

and suck death into her being

and let go as crows flow

like her husband’s poetry

that yields despair

where no blue skies fly

over London’s semidetached

while she disconnects

birthday joys and holidays

from effervescent yews’

bristling flowers

pollinating 

with a million sperm

falling into water

where fish spawn

bubbling with love 

and infidelities

in nightmare dreams 

of dying children

and lost reams

of black confetti. 

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