Like Ethreal Chorus Lines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She is buried in Bellfontaine:
The cars stroll like rain washed gentlemen,
Or above her the oaks whisper,
They don’t say a thing, and this is not
Ariel, Sylvia Plathe’s immortality,
This is not even her kitchen, or a customer
Who might have entered into that endless foray
Upon spick-and-span linoleum; but it wonders
Did they keep that oven of a guillotine in someplace
Sacred and higher up, as in on an alter, and why wasn’t
She anointed as a saint? I can see her from where I stand
In the shade of the broken pines; but she goes forever upward,
Her neck dissolved by the hand of god compressing her like
A brutal lover, holding her like the trunk of a Christmas tree:
She should stay with him forever, signifying the thoughtlessness
Of the pre-suburbia now passed through. Everything has gotten
Bigger, but only in the common sense, for she has dissolved
Altogether like a tablet of a pill, or given birth to a thousand
Doves hatched from a crèche at her breasts: I would have made
Love to her, if given the time, and compared scars, if she’d
Lifted me up those fretful cliffs, and laid me there like a child
Her head happens upon, stuck there sideways above the ether
And the multitudes of cars, watching the convection waver
Like ethereal chorus lines of baking apple pies.