The Kitchen Of Your Childhood Suicide, Sylvia Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I love Sylvia Plathe
Even though its been maybe a decade since
I read the Bell Jar,
And they’ve censored all of her poetry after her
Son, the fish man, committed suicide
Too:
I really love how Plathe was so honest, how she wrote
About hiding herself in the nook under the stairs
Going down, going down:
And I’ll be honest, I’m lit right now, and ready to
Settle down with my dogs and
Watch a movie,
After ten years, after ten years without at woman,
And never one live Sylvia:
I can’t even imagine one like Sylvia- and my teeth
Are aching and my scars do throb,
My greatest imperfections reflected back up to me
Impotently when I read Sylvia,
When I read her- I’d go to get my haircut in Tallahasee,
And then outside there was a tiny park by the lake
Where girls jogged and walked their dogs,
And not a one of them was Sylvia,
And I’d never drink- I’d go to class, and I’d never drink,
But I’d read Sylvia:
She was so honest for a housewife, admitting to her
Scars,
As I’ve admitted to mine, and loving the girls who serve
Lesser tattooed men the drinks in bars-
Oh well, Sylvia, you didn’t marry a doctor after all-
You married another poet- a man,
He wasn’t as good as you- maybe he was better than me,
But I love you more because of it,
And I feel so exposed like I’m in your kitchen now with the
Walls torn down, just a drunk tourist feeding the carnivorous
Birds, wishing I was French, or in my grave
So that I could understand you and reach over before the end
Of the week,
And press you to me like a prize and just use you to impress
Those girls I really love,
Those brilliant busty things crawled out of the sea who
Are so less than you,
And who appear to us both like delicious pies patriotically cooling
On the window sill in the kitchen of your childhood suicide,
Sylvia.