after “Fever 103” by Sylvia Plath
imagine her sprawled
in the chair of her walkup
her long legs spilling
to the side, book tossed away
her face a pale winter sky.
in a dozen hours
yellow sullen smoke will wreath
the time-battered door
its threshold and window jambs
a man downstairs unconscious
her innocent babes
wailing, then gasping for air
tears on hot metal
sizzle and fly into air
into empty memories
LatinosUSA 
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