By Boranya Choudhury
What happens when we die?
I question myself standing
in front of the shattered fishbowl,
each broken glass-
a blueprint of my dilapidated mind.
The goldfish flutters
on the hardwood floor,
clinging to life
with the beat of my trochaic heart-
DUM-de DUM-de DUM-de.
Trochaic Heart-
before Bethan Roberts,
I used to place the word
synonymous with anxiety, nausea, palpitations,
perhaps, depression?
What a treacherous (marvellous) way
of using grand vocabulary
of euphemized insanity and delirium,
Shakespeare would've been so proud.
I brood at the oblivion around the goldfish,
hoping some kind of telepathy
ricochets to my bones,
but I find no answer,
no syllables dancing in my ears,
only bees buzzing in my head
and in between thrums
the empty oven dings dog days
and I find myself asking once again-
Did Plath feel the same?
-Boranya Choudhury