I have no oven large enough,
Dear Sylvia, to roast
my head like a lamb for dinner.
Nor a brand-new car parked
in a garage, Dear Anne,
to etherize my soul.
Nor stones heavy with sin,
Dear Virginia, and a river deep
as forgetting to drown myself in.
Nor do I live in a building,
so high like the bluest
of skies, Dearest Maningning.
Sisters in rhyme, in crime,
how then shall I make my quick
and extraordinary exit?
Or shall I kill myself slowly
with beer and cigarettes,
bit by bit?
3 comments:
bokot!
Ang ganda sir!
this is really charming. short pieces but laden with meaning. even if u were talking about how these literary greats killed themselves, it came across as almost humorous.
i'm becoming a fan. :) i liked ariel too.
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