#7 Blues

Did 'it' rape my mind too??

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath, Ariel

Akhir

"Pahit.", ujarmu sembari memuntahkan apa yang ku suap kepadamu.

"Hatiku.", ujarku lirih.

"Aku tak menyukainya.", katanya sembari meludah.

"Bukankah dulu kau pernah meminta hatiku?", Aku tersenyum tipis.

"Hatimu membosankan, terlalu pahit dan getir untukku. Ah, sudahlah. Akan ku cari hati yang lebih manis dan menarik daripada hatimu.", ujarnya.

Kemudian dia pergi,
Dan tak pernah kembali.

Tenang, Aku Masih Belum Ingin Mati

Apa kau tahu rasanya sepi?
Apa kau mengerti rasa kesepian?
Apa kau paham rasanya hampa?
Apa kau pernah?

Pernahkah kau terbangun dengan kekosongan dalam hatimu?
Kau mencoba memanggil, berteriak, tetapi tak ada seorangpun yang ada?
Kau merasa kecil dan hampa.

Apa aku ada?
Apa aku nyata?
Apa aku benar2 hidup?
Apa aku?

Dan kemudian dalam sepersekian detik, hampa menggerogoti tubuhmu.
Membuatmu sesak.
Tak mampu berkata,
Berfikir,
Bahkan menangis.

Apa kau pernah?