The Word Made Flesh is Sylvia

And tremblingly, we’ve all partook.
The only question’s whether
we’re cannibals or communicants.
Either way, we eat her

grave cave crisp papery skin,
we suck her red homunculus
right off our own chapped lips.
We do it again and again.

The only way to know
if, instead of gruesome, all is holy,
(but all is both), is when we’re done,
we can’t be, she can’t be,
not one single living word can be
diminished. None.

So, once again, I agree with Chuck Rybak. We do suck Sylvia. 🙂

4 responses to “The Word Made Flesh is Sylvia

  1. Love this poem, Marnie!

  2. The first time I read The Bell Jar, I cried my eyes out. Finally someone else had an idea of what I had been through my entire life. I still remember the poem she wrote about being pregnant and how I could relate to the imagery. I still sit here shaking my head at the fine line between genius and insanity, Too bad the medical community of the 1960’s was unable to help her like it would today. It seems the most talented people are the most tortured souls out here.

  3. I do like to think the person Sylvia would get the right meds today. But I’m glad the poet Sylvia left us the poems she left us.

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