Sylvia Segmented
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.