What did I do? And what, precisely,
did you think? My little squiggled heart
crawls off the page.
Oh, I am the bad admirer.
My book is ugly. I have never
been to the shrine, not like that
other one, the crazy girl.
I gasp in the church and mouth
the wrong words. I can never
light enough candles, votive jewels,
never proffer the right flowers.
I am his guest; I sit in the corner.
Love and what to do with it -
Now it is eight in the evening.
Now it is noon, fugitive
hours tick by, unrecorded,
the phone is useless,
In your dream
we meet and then separate
only to search
on the hot streets for hours.
Mine is different; blood is
everywhere as I cover my eyes
but my ears still hear the shrieks.
A small doll, my soul, is cut in half.
What did I see? What, precisely,
did you miss? A murder of crows,
the memorials, and always, her--
she in the fruiting trees, the flying
horse, the low full moon.
Saturday, July 10, 1999
The Sylvia Plath Forum is administered by Elaine Connell, author of Sylvia Plath: Killing The Angel In The House.
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