After Plath The key to the tower is an illusion. There is a dignity to this; a formality— the irises could be doing any
blurs iridescent after meds— the sun’s dry-light sleeking drab. The pain-body sings musty as a moth-wing-tongue, calls you into the room with coffee and
Mama takes a breath for the doctor’s stethoscope pressing against her chest, a cold kiss moonshot point blank range. “Gentle now,” the doctor urges