here, halloween comes 'round every night i feel as though i massacre myself
in a plight
not fit for bees
hornets nests
do their best
to sting the misery out of me
but alas
i know why plath baked her head
stuffed in the oven
a yeasty loaf of bread
her words seeped out
like pinpricks
each letter an analogy
of what she really wanted to say to me
turn up the heat
to 350 degrees
she never had writer's block
maybe if she did
the gas would be off
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