Plath and Sexton

Gillian Conoley

there should have been a third
my friends and I

to not feel so incomprehensible
we were carrying your dead books

we were washed in the blood of them
but we were wanting one more

for a while we tried Artaud’s “all wright is shit all writers are pigs”

our clubhouse;     language    death    war    music     fireflies for an opera

we were thinking a lot about the feminine
we were putting our feminine in a briefcase

and waiting for

caution tape

hyperlinks to take us to
the tulip scape    the blue blazer scape

infinity’s integument
undoing

pageboy, if you hold on, we could all be the
third, and you, the task
of our young life,    strangely exhilarated

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