In honor of National Poetry Month, I shall be doing my poetry thing each Sunday in April.
“Be good to Sylvia. Always,”
Mrs. Plath said to son-in-law Ted.
It was a curse he carried
with him when the tide dragged him
out to sea and back toward home,
a firmer ground from which he drew
his inspiration, and Sylvia did not.
When she died, he became a man drifting,
drifting on a cold-hearted sea
of bad press, his lifeboat leaking.
It was the curse.
Funny how words can wound.
He took them in
day in and day out. One day
his boat sank, and he too died,
the words on his gravestone always to be:
the man who killed Sylvia Plath,