The Resurrection of Sylvia Plath

by Marc Goldfinger

This shadow sees

  its breath. From the underground

  it comes, first the head, the neck

  wrapped tight, eyes to match, deep

  as cracked arctic snow. Flame

  turned inwards. The neighbors

  watch the shadow watch the man

  come, then go. This will be the last

  time. No one sees the shadow wrench

  itself from the flesh, the breath stop.

  (II)

  No one stands at this window now.

  The curtains drawn. Doors taped

  shut, the oven open, folded cloth

  a pillow. In another room, upstairs

  an open window. The sound of children.

  Winter sun. Cloaked mirrors. A book.

  Sylvia And I Disagree

  She tells me I haven’t lived the type of life

  she has. I tell her I’ve been

  to Harvard Square. She tells me I will never

  understand love. I tell her I have seen the face

  of death. She tells me loving her means I must love

  Ariel too. I tell her I have always

  been faithful. She tells me I am

  not tall enough for her. I tell her when

  we are naked and I am on my knees

  in front of her, I will be just the right

  height. She tells me I don’t have enough

  words to speak her voice. I tell her

  to spit into my ear, I can’t hear

  spirits with their mouths full

  of blood. She tells me she doesn’t

  know why she likes me. I tell

  her it is my illusion of idealism,

  love and morbidity: All the women

  I love are dead. She tells me to stop

  reading her letters. I tell her

  she was waiting all this time for

  someone to send them to. She tells me I

  don’t understand her poetry, why continue

  this hopeless quest. I tell her her love

  drives me into places where I might

  never go. I offer her a bouquet of black

  roses, I offer her my beating heart. She

  says, I am going to let you do this

  to me, she takes the roses, wraps her

  other hand around my heart, squeezes.