Author: Olavia Kite

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

—Sylvia Plath

When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you shall lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough;
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.

—Sara Teasdale

As if I didn’t know yours is the system with the weakest radio waves. An enclosed system that emits no light.

Silence comes back into the room and makes herself comfortable.

She looks like one of those long glamorous girls from the 1920s, all dressed in white, leaning sideways on my bed as if it were a chaise longue. She blinks slowly with those dreamy eyes of hers and glances at me, at the wall, at the window.

I’d like to tell her that she’s got the wrong address, that she shouldn’t be here, but she’s wise enough to distinguish the cold, stale air as inviting incense, the mess on the floor as a trail to the bright red spot where my venae cavae lead.

Tonight I shall have a dream, and she won’t be in it. Oh, temporary solace for her lips of winter morning!