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

choose one.

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.