Prayer to Lady Lazarus 
        after Sylvia Plath 

Again curled beneath a willow spreading
its branches: an ancient umbrella 

in a biblical downpour that falls
as needles skewers the wings 

of dragonflies. I fashion a crown: golden-
laurel halo-barely lit flickering 

low. The last time I saw her, she
slid a key into a socket, her eyes 

dark and sunken peach pits, hair
scarcely remained. The time before 

she stood outside for seven
days bent a piece of metal 

around her chest, then waited
for the storm to end. O mother:  

do not tell me I am in a body
that is violent, but rather a single 

horse hair snapped over the neck
of a violin. Mother: do not 

worry—God promised
the world would not end 

with water again.