insomuch that one armadillo was pink as nails
and had a diamante crown on its head
the way plath and sexton traded secrets
and shared personal triumphs over men
but also embittered and bruised themselves
in an about turn like any number of paradoxes
the ones as circuitous as the next tautology
about the family of quetzals circling the sun
like glyphs against the aurora borealis
clapping and crackling like static in winter
as plath traces her fingers across a grab bar
to make it to the end to situate herself
within the right bridge between mclean
and a manor house where daddies emerge
between day and dusk all hugs and torment
the contradiction an infection already explicit
like a proper derivation of past entanglements
like two symptoms ruling out each other