Sitting with Figs
In This Issue
a found poem: Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar
Purple figs plopped at my feet—
another and another
and another like a pack of offbeat lovers.
The fat figs beckoned and winked.
I was starving but I couldn’t make myself
I couldn’t decide which I wanted.
They sat before me
and began to wrinkle. I saw
every fig go black.
I was choosing death. I was losing
my brilliant mind.