work
sylvia plath was in my kitchen yesterday
baking this or that and this and that
while I typed away
frittered and corralled line after line
with the smell of chocolate chips flirting with my nose
I could hear her muttering
not once trying to whipser
about this wrong or that wrong
someone somewhere had done her
but we had both found our havens
mine, with broken sentences and hers
nestled
somewhere near a wooden spoon
and my range
and I’m sure my copy of the bell jar is about somewhere
to tell me that this is a dream
but I know it isn’t
because she never came back to my study
to offer me a treat
she is just that kind of woman.
poetry
away
