Dear Sylvia Plath,
Let me lift the bell jar from your eyes,
flame-red strands dropping to your shoulders,
oxygen returning to your lips.
I want you to place your fingers on your heart, and listen.
The new brag.
You are. You are. You are.
Sylvia, you are more than a ground
scattered by shriveled figs.
Each word you’ve carved onto page
has became a future of its own,
a violet fruit
devoured by the young minds
You are more than a man’s machine.
Though he twists the corks and gears
in your clogged mind,
you are the only being that knows
where the power switch is.
You are more than a newspaper headline.
Black print describing a limp body,
an empty pill canister,
a sad girl.
Sylvia, you are a person
of truth and wisdom and courage and passion.
A voice in my mind,
cajoling me towards a future
where I can take a hammer
to fears and little glass jars,
and tell another human being
how I feel,
The words from my lips,
like the words engraved by your poems,
will tell no lies.
Your vodka weapons,
god-less night skies
serve as constant reminders.
Each word will be plucked
from its branch,
let me pass the hammer to you.
Shatter the bell jar.