sylvia wrote
of a being the
ghost of an
infamous
suicide
her blue razor
rusted in her throat
unknowing of how
prophetic
she truly was
even if the means
was gotten wrong

she is impossible
to emulate
the electric stove
notwithstanding
but this morning
as the sparrows scream
my eyes retrace
her infamous suicide
with a jealousy
i’d rather not
have to define