There are nights when I run out of flesh, of skin and bones to melt, to offer, to fill this glaring pit, now just a rusting can of worms There are nights when my soul wraps itself in silken ribbons and velvet gowns slipping slowly off this skin: a striptease for death; maybe more.
There are nights when my soul waits, stills in a corner and readies itself for Plath to collect.
Get it all out now — the linen is too short, the myrrh, too little for the allusions and all these twisted laments.
This wake is good for just one tragedy.
Get it all out — the obvious references, the tributes to another poet, who killed herself —
get it all out, little girl.
There is no room for two in a coffin in a world where Lady Lazarus dies and stays dead.