Trepidation
I have always liked Sylvia Plath’s Miss Drake proceeds to Supper with its unexpected compassion and tenderness. This one is rather less so:
she proceeds to breakfast
like a bating eagle
she steps
through the door
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jasmine, lobelia, rose,
honey-suckle, rose, fuchsia
rose, clematis, hydrangea
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liturgy and jess
returning
order from the dark
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she tears the colour from the petals
seeking, grasping from the earth
the terrifying weeds
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fierce anxiety
soothed ruthlessly
by ritual decisions
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amongst the sweet williams
she pauses
consuming memory; inventing carelessness
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counting, placing
she goes on,
each one, each shape, each leaf and stem
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touched ceremonially before
she turns
into the house, where the others wait
