i returned to school after years away and
i fell madly in love with sylvia plath.
i won’t have math at all but
i am a binge reader and i intend
to drink her until there is nothing left
but the cold, white space that remains
from her death. she speaks to me
in her woman’s voice with her woman’s eyes
that look out into mine from letters
into words that see into my soul,
coax and then push me off the cliff
where they and them and everyone not her live
to be happy and clueless– perfect picket fence
keeping ugly world at bay.
the place she stays is calm like hot tea
with the rain of a storm against the window–
a quiet revolution is still
without the guns and red everywhere
showing on a screen the people not in the war forget
those who dream of gardens.