Edge

This is a poem I wrote about two years ago in a moment of great grief, one of those moments where impotence and frustration just seem to be overwhelming, where panic and shock are paralysing to the bone.
The day I dropped my iPod in the toilet bowl.

At that time we were studying Sylvia Plath in English class so I made it in the style of her last poem, Edge. You can read it here http://www.sylviaplathforum.com/edge.html, even if you don't read mine. But actually, read the original first and then mine. You'll see.

Edge (of the Toilet Bowl)
By Rodrigo Palau

The iPod is perfected
Its dead
Carcass wears the smile of accomplishment
The illusion of a Californian necessity
Flows in the crystals of its screen,
Its bare
Buttons seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each headphone coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of lithium, now empty.
It has folded
Them back into its body as petals
Of a rose close when it falls into the bowl
Stiffens and water bleeds
Into the delicate, deep circuitboards of the blank slate.
Tech support has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of silicon.
It is used to this sort of thing.
Its chips crackle and drag.