Sylvia Plath writing in her journal, 23 Fitzroy Road, London, February 1963
7 a.m.
Beyond the bedpost
no mirage of glad husband
moving tall towards me with his English offer
of toast and marmalade,
a cup of tea.
He’s with another.
She has mongrel blood,
a Knightsbridge accent,
can turn a man into
a spinning top,
an arsonist in the house of marriage.
One day she’ll become
a book that my husband
has tired of reading.
I’ll go soon, far from
Massachusetts, Devon, London,
the zoo where my selves are caged,
venomous snake,
sacrificial lamb,
sleepless monkey examining its fleas.
[...] Read more
poem by Peter Bakowski
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