she complained to her
psychologist who sat back
and watched her throw
a half-eaten apple into the trash.

That was my death first
and I wanted its taste of lead
its smell of spoiled milk
to behold me first of all.
I wanted to be its best poetic visitor.

The girl I loved as my rival closed the case
on mid-20th century
depressed women
and took my best
suicide dancing girls with her –
I really had a few.
Red-dressed flappers
with tassels on their breasts.
Plum lips and platinum-blond hair.

After my death, I would have hypnotized
the world with all I would not say –

for the art of dying
is competitive.

Well, doctor, I want my death
to smoke everyone out of the room.
I’d strangle the smallest words out of
their throats until they say Uncle –
or Mama…I was the real
god-damned thing.

11/25/2004

Author's Note: The "My" in the title should be italicized. Another Sylvia series poem.

Posted on 11/25/2004
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky