hom(e)age

I have done it again

as Sylvia Plath would say-

One year in every ten I manage it

Yet the tulips have never excited me

There is a fate in those-

in those putrid little buds

A sort of crawling malice

peeking out of the ground

that I crave to ensnare

To capture

to wither

to lay bare all of my-

all of this monstrous loathing

I wallow in it

as if I’m up to my elbows in it

Sinking and swallowing

a hallowed out carcass 

I’d have much rather the red

red spiders that lily 

at least they are aware of their corpse

Their shadows that follow behind

that don’t woo with remembrance 

a snuffed out rebirth 

but a serene death

The soil trickles over them

laughs with them

hugs us so gently

As if it’s a mere lovers caress