Because she was clamped in the vise of herself
because she was numb
because words moved slowly as glaciers
because they flowed from her mouth like wine
because she was angry
& knotted her hair
& wore sand in her bra
because she had written herself into a corner
& could not get out
because she had painted the sun on her ceiling
& then got burned
because she invented the stars
& watched them fall...
There is nothing to say now.
You have filled her grave with your theories,
her eyes with your sights.
You have picked her bones clean
as ancestor bones.
They could not gleam whiter.
But she is gone.
But she is grass you have trod.
She is dust you have blown away.
She sits in her book like an aphid,
small & white.
She is patient.
When you're silent
she'll crawl out.
The Sylvia Plath Forum is administered by Elaine Connell, author of Sylvia Plath: Killing The Angel In The House.
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