“I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can’t put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can’t!” – Sylvia Plath
for Sylvia Plath
Why can’t I write about toothbrushes?
Stalwart things, they are. Bristled guardians
they stand armless against invaders
of our own making and those not.
Like the multi-limbed pests drawn
to damp left between their spiky rows.
Who’s to say a poem can’t be written
about their ordinary sameness
set apart only by color and bristle
rows placed for looks, not use.
Is that not what we poets exist for?
To see the sublime in the ordinary.
To call the miracles into light.
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