“Undefined (After Sylvia Plath)” by Sharon Scholl

February 23, 2016

Years come like mice from dusty
corners of dark rooms where furniture
lacks the solidity to define me.
I am the gray, so ambiguous
it freezes into shape.

O Creator, I do not see myself
in you, in your eye-cracking
brightness slashed by comets.
Your here, your there are intractable.

What I care about is indeterminance,
moving furniture without deciding
where it belongs. I love
the blank space where galaxies
have passed and left no definition.

I’ll write myself upon the wind,
inscribe myself in sounds that were
and are no longer.

Is it the great I AM roaring
at the door, ready to pin me
like a Latin-labeled butterfly
to the crucifix of time? Impatient
to be done with it, to mark me
saved or doomed, no wiggling allowed.

I’ll stand fast
at the dimmest edge of lamplight
where I could be, or perhaps not,
gray inside and out.

SharonSharon Scholl is a retired professor from Jacksonville University in Florida, a persistent poet, professional musician/composer, and world traveler. Her chapbook, Summer’s Child, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. At age 83, she counts her days.

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