We play reincarnation of Sexton and Plath,
dragging our feet in the rain,
palms upward to receive the sermon.
The spray, the holy water.
(The pain the blood the fall the dirty water dripping)
Oh god! Not the oh-so-masochistic/nihilistic tendencies,
no tears, only one-upswomanship in thresholds of denial!
The questions remain, important questions:
Who will play the oven head-mistress this time? (you you you)
Who the pills and who the drunk? (me me me)
Who the muff head and who the bunk?
Does it matter,
sister? It doesn’t really.
Give me your hand.
We’ll hold no prisoners, no captive hearts, only fingers warmed over,
by the twiddling of thumbs and recitation of nothing mantras.
We’ll eat words for lunch
and promise to dye
our hair the same colour the next time we’re in the city.