Lament
By Rebecca L. Morrison

My ink
cannot
plaster this page:
"Oh, no. We refuse!"
…Sweet Apollo, swing low;

and I refuse,
in Plath-esque stubbornness,
to fling open
these glacial arms
and brush earnest rays with prosaic
fingertips. Tell me I'm

aching, I'll not stay afloat.
Merciless me, I shall not
live in vain! And in

reverie,
lines run from my mouth like
steam from Maytags... so I'll

settle with hopes
taken to sprint –
sullied by stars,
far missed by the moon.