What a trash, to annihilate each decade–
you find your ways to keep falling,
to be a crystal decanter full of lead–
weighed down enough to drown and
guaranteed to shatter. Like Plath,
this is your third resurrection–
reunited with life in a white room
with the promise of next lifetime’s
new beginning coming a little bit
too soon. Though this is no public
revelation; in private, you’ll peel
off the bandages bit by bit, forgetting
where cloth ends and skin begins.
You will ensure no one will be around
to see what’s rotting underneath,
what’s healing underneath–and tomorrow
the public display. We’ll pretend
it’s been a decade. You’ll stand
on the rooftop with your audience
below cheering at the spectacle.
Based off of this prompt to use a line from a favorite poem as the opening line for my own poem.
Today’s recommendation (the source of the first line):