"Mortified, Petrified, Stupefied!"

The wound is ripe

To be sliced and consumed

Before it consumes her.

Pardon me for the grotesque imagery

It slipped out

Of my grotesque contemplation

With a deliberate ease and arrogance

Of utmost feminine frailty.

(Can you please compare this

With a Sylvia Plath gloom

Dipped in “black shoe daddy” memories

And battered by a “red heart biting Ted Hughes”?)

My heroine in the poem

Demanded some drama-

Like ”plucked out Oedipus’s eye balls”

Staring at the wound on the empty sockets.

But that would be-

Too “rationally cartoonish”, lively and manly.

The wound is really really ripe,

Yellowish and yellower

And eternally yellow

When the cart wheeled and wheels

Quietly over centuries

With one Sylvia to another

“Mortified, petrified, stupefied”-

And mutely brewing inside!

Can it be consumed 
Before it consumes further?