Sylvia Plath Says Goodnight to Her Son by Willow Rose
Wiping those poetic hands on her apron; Sylvia Plath is feeling overcome
by the sensation of desire in her heated kitchen; “Lady Lazarus” in agony
pours milk for her son and kisses him goodnight; sometimes not
quite so torn she feels the power tonight; her mind starts to crave
her amorous lover;
The art they do so well,
until it’s real and feels like hell.
When she is an object no longer alive
and can’t even scream, but she has nine lives
and has seen them peel the shroud away as
she sits devastated by the prospect
of yet another unendurable day.
The arsenic is gone it was taken by those doctors
who thought the paroxysms would do it this time;
She found a high tightrope and started to climb
so far from the ground and without a net,
the vibrations just shook her and no plummet or fall
could happen to someone as famous as she;
Until that she stood parallel to the sink,
poured her son milk and herself a drink,
turned on the gas, mailed herself off post-haste
to confessional poets and suicides; whatever the place
where many years later heartbroken, alone
Her devastated son now a man tried her trick
But death was in no mood and took him quite quick
He never got to write about it; he didn’t catch a break,
Did he really mean to?
Or was it all a mistake?
©Willow Rose 2011