Sitting Saturday with an 18 pound cat holding onto my lap for dear life while I watch “Sylvia” on my computer screen because the DVD player that’s part of my TV doesn’t work.
“Poets are Shamans,” he says to woo her. “What are rituals and incantations but poetry.” How could she resist?
Without the seratonin uptake inhibitors, would I have been another Sylvia? With them, would she have been another me?
I remember the darkness and lying, exhausted, across my unmade bed while my daughter and son worried and did what they had to.
There is a power in that darkness. Words crawl around like snakes slowly curving themselves into dark meanings. The trick is not to fall into the pit.
I am no Lady Lazarus. I am no Sylvia.
I am, however, fond of snakes.

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