Last night I watched that

movie about a desperate

poet

so sure of her brilliance

she stalked her hero

believing he could bestow some kind of “poetic serum”

from a vial kept wrapped

in his used napkin.

 

She screamed a lot

tacked a photo of Sylvia Plath upon her dead wall

and I remember

awakening between scenes thinking

of how badly she had to want it

to scream to rage to stalk

so loudly

to declare with absolute

unretractable intent

her purpose

 

while time slips beyond

vague edges of pregnant beginnings and surface grazing

I have never thought to

scream or rage

or charge anyone

at all.