Sylvia Plath's Cats
Poem by Richard George
Their breath was clean, or harsh and sour
according to her moods:
and when they sensed a coming storm
they crept into corners.
Today she is a remote eminence,
tall and cold as Alaska:
but the cats understood her
as something young and brittle
that cuts you when it breaks.
When she died, apart from them
they felt her passing over
as a seismic change of frequency:
they never quite forgot her
and when something reminded them
they purred, nervously.
No one writes their biography.
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