The Everlasting Monday
Thou shalt have an everlasting
Monday and stand in the moon.
The moon’s man stands in his shell,
Bent under a bundle
Of sticks. The light falls chalk and cold
Upon our bedspread.
His teeth are chattering among the leprous
Peaks and craters of those extinct volcanoes.
He also against black frost
Would pick sticks, would not rest
Until his own lit room outshone
Sunday’s ghost of sun;
Now works his hell of Mondays in the moon’s ball,
Fireless, seven chill seas chained to his ankle.
-Sylvia Plath
Yesterday was divine. I went to a neighborhood brunch and drank many mimosas while chatting with my history professor and then went and played volleyball during a brief break in the rain while wearing the most ridiculous outfit of tye-dyed boxers, a ratty tye-dyed tshirt and black galoshes. Then my roommates and I baked Ghirardelli brownies and watched terrible movies and shared poems we wrote after freshman year. Ridiculous and awesome.