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Sylvia Plath, Awaiting Our Applause |
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by Maurice Oliver
The eggs.
The boiling water.
And an empty salt shaker.
Or it could be a poem filled with streets and
sewers and a thick overcast that burns off
at noon. You know, the kind that seems to
hop around on that good leg it broke falling
from a branch high up in the tree of life. And
it might wear an exotic apron stolen from
the kitchen of illicit greasy spoons. Or it might
be a pustule camouflaged on a parking meter
only a stanza could come from. One unpolluted
stop sign. A couple of left-winged construction
cranes. A billboard sacred to lip-synch. And if
you happen to take the alternative way to the
dry cleaners you could drive right by a rundown
elementary school with a playground longing for
its muse to repair the lopsided merry-go-round.
You have plenty of time prepare to applause.
As for me, I have a blind date with a wrist slash
whose online profile is innocent and cruel too. It
will be dressed in an orange jumpsuit and will be
carrying a plank card implying that every faith is
created by infidels and that even the path to the
Pearly Gate leads straight to hell. |