in the Dark
at the back of the cupboard I found
a Potato you left behind
when you left me to clean up your mess
when you left me
it was small and soft, a little shriveled,
its Heart was Dark like yours mother.
(Women and vegetables rot from the inside,
you said, and who would know better than you?)
the sprouts were thin and white
fragile as frostbitten fingers
fragile as the feelers of a cockroach
sniffing for danger and probing for food
as you probed, looking for soft spots,
for openings in my hard upper layers,
places for your cuttings to sprout and not heal.
Think for yourself, you said, but
How? With your words wrapped
around my thoughts–
tentacles of an octopus Mother.
you– made me a vacuum, sucking up
Crumbs of Affection
from whomever might drop them.
now you’re gone and a
vacuum remains pulling me apart like cobwebs,
a dandelion when it’s gone to seed,
a Potato, unpierced by love, left in the microwave
Until it explodes.
(The “assignment” was to write a poem in the manner of Sylvia Plath. I’m not fond of most of her poetry because it’s so dark and melodramatic but here’s my best shot. It’s also my first draft so feel free to make constructive comments.)
Mouthfeel 