Sylvia, August 1962

[NOTE: Each line of this poem is a scrap from Sylvia Plath’s journals.]

It is morning, gray, most sober, with cold white puritanical eyes;
The light is cold, cruel, and still.

And all the time the wrongness growing, creeping, choking the house, twining the tables and chairs and poisoning the knives and forks, clouding the drinking water with that lethal taint.

Blonde & sullen, her hair down, sheened metallic gilt in the dim light –
A dark blue sweater, harlequin striped bermuda shorts – red, green & yellow,
& long navy-blue stockings, she in a pout,
Humiliations stomached like rotten fruit.

Alone, deepening.

Absolutely blind fuming sick.

© Michelle R. Smith 2005