Maybe I’ll make Plath my Goddess,
let her voluptuous word-tentacles play up,
to my third eye
scraping it down to
white hot, carte blanche prudence.
Exfoliating fodder with her sacred, sacred breath.
Then, maybe I’ll make you my spirit guide,
Revered one.
So we can stroll through snowflake-fragile green pastures,
Heady with hot coal, eggshell verdant turf.
And I’ll courageously blurt that I
may
make this poetess Divine.
And you’ll belly laugh your school mistress frankness
saying
You already did,
You already did.
Then maybe I’ll make Tarot my dance card.
Blank paged and anticipating
Soul’s signature to
breach its every page.
Or I’ll make the Cards my diary
and over schedule every day with too long
soul fireside chats.
I could even make Jung my familiar,
a jungle cat of a companion.
My escort through the shadow-waist land
Where my darken Sacral illuminates the
Fluorescent-neon Plexus faceted with clarity.