| Sylvia Plath
The walls, tools on the shelves are grey with dust. Hands put hammer and chisel down. The stone is finished, the road closed, the garden stiffened. She must have tried to kick the deaf-and-dumb flow that carried her away, invalidating the note on the kitchen table, call so-and-so. Once it quenched her wound it formed a heavy cloud, curved like a hand over the sculptured face, caressing a loss. |