by Devon Balwit
after Plath’s “Poppies in October”
Palely and flamily,
we ignite beneath the skins
we were bagged in at birth.
Waxen and bathetic
we are St. Sebastians
of pointing fingers.
We wring our hands,
familiar
with the posture of martyrs.
No god watches
at a distance
as we load magazines
into chambers.
What an endless rat-tat-tat.
What a shrill keening.
The funeral corteges
snake for blocks.
Candles gutter in clusters.
The comfort
we hunger for
sizzles like tiny wings.
Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, OR. Her poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Rattle, Rise-Up Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Rat's Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, What Rough Beast, and more.
