Plath's Pockets

Artwork: Maddy Watson

One doubled, we go out to eat,

Turkish

For two. Then:

Home again.

Still hungry, he eats me out.

Still starving, wish I’d stayed in.

My hollow cave

Groans, apple core brain coated by

Thin skin.

Fat chance. I

Face the fact.

His seeds simply won’t accept

The arid soil in me; just

Tumble and dry.

My cherry syrup smears his mouth,

I have,

Bare parched lips,

Bloody thighs

A white sculptured waist in mind,

A landscape, cut off sharp by

The knife inside

My cavern, my fertile grotto.

Tip tap.

Empty room,

Full silence.

Who is that inside there now?

Who would like to sneak a peek?

Someone knocking?

But no, the moon drops right out of

The sky.

Swelling tides,

Flat voices.

It’s aching where the knife is

It’s given like a prize,

It’s job well done!