Reading Plath's Tulips aloud in the ward. My husband
orders, "write a poem about how bitter Oolang tea is." Teacher
inside apprises: start with the tea, then reflect
on life's bitter moments, how they turn sweet
sometimes. "That's your assignment for tomorrow,"
homework as a kindness to fill another long, ill minute.

Plath's recovering from another go at ending it. Some love's
sent flowers, too vivid, too demanding. She objects
at being trawled back from oblivion's blank fathoms
by their maniacal ostentation. The Oolong is dead
cold, but its bitter edge is a spoiler. My mouth's a livid smudge
on cotton pressed against a retreating needle.

I feel her sad attraction to that weightless surrender,
but my stomach grumbles and Master whacks me
with a stick. I crave constant sweet, even as it evaporates
our time together in a cloud of brittle floss. Bitter
is an anchor that holds us from speeding over the drop, a nag
that wags a finger in our crimson faces gasping for love's air.

The metronome's relentless - blood draw, arm cuff,
beat count, sleep tally, breath log - stalking
signs of life being chipped away. The fight, the snipe,
the jab, the scratch, the unhappy bed of rock,
are better cures to a short life than the lightest pillow.
Savor your sugar coma, but covet bitter's profound remission.

by John Goss