'K' is for Virginal

You are a textbook replication of a slighter Plath and Hughes,
drawn daily through a contemporary intro-Southern collective jar
and with a geminated bite and sphere at your freshly-picked fingertips,

hanging fire like bed sheets with poetry-peppered papers
on a clothesline of aberrances, sharp thumbtacks of unfinished prose
delaying some other thing, casual stings, Greek recipes.

You’ve cloistered yourself in a trapdoor oven with a lightly-curtained laugh,
sputtered oven light glaring so that a single passerby can ensure
that you don’t cook yourself to a lighter colorlessness,
        postured sweetly with a deep carbon coat.