Today's poem is by Sara Henning

Stealing Ariel
       

What had I become the night I dreamed
I shot my mother's Smith and Wesson pistol?
I'd never held an oil-slick metal barrel,
fingered the grip of a powerful god.

I only dreamed I shot my mother's pistol,
but my aunt's man told police I cased his Jeep.
Seventeen, I'd never fingered the grip of a powerful god.
Under his grin, his vowels are bitter sugar.

He told the cop on call I cased his Jeep.
Loosened a lug nut. lee-picked his tire.
Under his grin, his vowels are bitter sugar.
She tried to kill my wife, he said. She'd kill.

He said, She ice-picked my tire—
His lies, stiff as gin in the morning.
She tried to kill my wife, he said. She'd kill.
He hated my mother, which meant he hated me.

His lies, stiff as gin in the morning.
Lights from the cop's car glinted and burned.
He hated my mother, which meant he'd hurt me.
The cop looked at me like one of his daughters.

Lights from the cop's car glinted and burned.
Last week, I'd stolen my mother's copy of Ariel.
The cop looked at me like one of his daughters.
My aunt's man said, Honey, your life is over.

I thought of Sylvia Plath, her lines
Your body. / Hurts me as the world hurts God.
Your life is over, the cop said,
if you call my station again.

Your body. / Hurts me as the world hurts God.
I'd never held an oil-slick metal barrel.
If you call my station again, he said.
What had I become that night? I dreamed.

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from Burn
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Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission