Chicano Poet

Monday, February 14, 2005


"What the hell
was Mr. Bones
doing in England?"

I ask Henry.
"He went a lookin’
for Miss Sylvia Plath,

it seems
he’s much enamored
of her tiny waist,

the hair pulled back,
the dress that
only reveals so much."

Henry spoke
as if he himself
had been transported

to her side.
Her scent hung in the air,
you could feel

the heat coming
from her body.
I had to shake

my head vigorously
to escape the clutches
of the apparition

created by Henry.
Then, the wind pushed her dress
against her curves,

I could see the outline
of the shrine
and Mr. Bones at worship.


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