Sylvia’s Death | a poem

SYLVIA’S DEATH
For Sylvia Plath

O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons

with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in the tiny playroom

with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer

(O Sylvia, Sylvia,
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about raising potatoes
and keeping bees?)

what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?

Thief!—
how did you crawl into,

crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,

the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,

By Anne Sexton

Anne Sexton

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