The General Paralysis of Insanity

Plath wrote about her own high fever
Unfolding words in a backwards origami, conjuring
Hallucinatory ritual purification and sex from
Jagged syllables hooked out of oblivion.

Fevers break, as do hearts; meanwhile
Poor skeleton steps out
Dressed up in bad blood, bad brain, bad skin
And the deeds of another "ought".

It wasn't fever that killed her, but frenzied hopelessness
Redolent of rotting vegetation, heavy and sweet.
Nobody ever brings plants to hospitals
That can survive winter.

Poor skeleton.
One of these days
You will cast off your death
And be free.


Inspiration: http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2013/02/there-are-almost-no-obituaries-for-sylvia-plath/273032/
I read Plath's entire body of work in my early teens; she's the Marilyn Monroe for the bluestocking set. I still re-read her poems for solace; in earlier poetry the rhymes are so joyful and her later poetry gives death an allure usually reserved for lust. She has such a gift and still worked so hard.