Shelley dreamt of you before you were born.
Sylvia you are the colossal wreck,
The ugly, hateful
stature torn
Of Mars' black sword and a critic's trek.
We scholars pray and pray and pray for you.
Your faithful drones working for their sweet queen.
But somehow thoughts of you just can not do,
can not wake you from our misgotten dream.
Letters written by a silent chilled hand
Haunt us, the writing fools. But not Ms. Plath.
Long ago, free of your committments bands
you wrote yourself out of the canon's bath.
You live, live, live in o'r devoted eyes.
In our sockets you find what you despise.
By
Barbara E Emanuele
to do laundry...
-Awilda Aponte-
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