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Sylvia Plath Resurrected // Aytan Laleh



There is a thump on the trembling door, Soft like the brown September breeze, Then it turns to iron with urgency; I open it hurriedly, There is a woman who stands before me, Her hair imbrued with silt, Her body cloaked in muck. She mourns gently at first, Then she wails loudly, her indignation a feast For eyes that left willingly. She says she stumbled on the roadside like an expectant cow, The passerby ignored her tragicomedy, Her brute was nowhere to be seen. She has two children too— God knows where they sleep. Her little one had curveted from the slide on their street.

I hold her hand softly, My home welcomes her with a greedy and open mouth, We sit by the fireside which reflects In her eyes like red-hot coal. We are talking longingly when I kneel and ask, ‘Is your name Sylvia? The poor woman is dumbfounded by my insanity.

Aytan Laleh is a twenty-one-year-old poet based in Lahore, Pakistan. She likes to write about everything that is sad and morbid. Her work has appeared in Eunoia Review and is forthcoming with Riggwelter Press. She tweets at @AytanLaleh.

Image by Liliana

#poetry #aytanlaleh #vol7 #boneandink

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