After Sylvia Plath’s Edge
The letters writhe as my fingertips tickle my iPhone’s keyboard. It’s 2:20 am. My pupils
move in every direction, drawing circle-like shapes in the air, imploring my eyelids to close. This poem will be perfected tonight.
Last night, I intended to write a poem.
I turned the lights off as I walked
into my bedroom, stumbling on Sylvia Plath’s books that lay on the floor. I undressed and crawled under the blanket, as if I would meet the gods in my dreams. So pure; so innocent. Sweat forced itself on me, under my breasts, my armpits, inside my palms. My body, slick like a baby sliding into a new world. I said I must write a poem. My thumb took off,
creating new words: do you remember when your fingers crept in my curls, kissing my scalp? The words shrilled and mauled my finger. I did not complete it. Today, I will write a poem.
It’s 3:30 am. My fingers make a rhythm. King tides whisper to my ear, inviting me to a feast with the forgotten ones in the abyss. Luminous blue and green, like shining stars, light my path as I dive in. My body, free and fluid, drifts downward. No sound; no heartbeat; only
Yalda Al-Ani is a writer from Iraq. Her writing appears in South Florida Poetry Journal, The Indianapolis Review, Willows Wept Review, and elsewhere. At William and Mary, where she earned her B.A. in English, she placed first at The Goronwy Owen Prize in Poetry, first in the Glenwood Clark Prize in fiction, and second in The Academy of American Poets Eva Burch Prize. Al-Ani’s poetry was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Serotonin 