I have no time, she says, pouring water for dishes in the sink
years of time washing over her flitting
memory-movies in her brain
Gone like water.
Time weighed on Sylvia Plath
and washing dishes
she knows what that feels like
knows the feeling of heads in ovens
knows the almost relief of
vacations to the beyond
there is only the reality of hot water
hard bone china
and silverware
things to do tomorrow
children far away
a life
left behind her
too late to retrieve
Aloneness presses down upon her like lead and too old
now for romance she
sighs
and turns
towards the pen and empty paper
and Sylvia staring back at her with black holes
for eyes
time, predator? or
time, friend
she does not know who she sees in the mirror.
©diane o’leary 2006
time
About Me
poet, diarist, writer, teacher, woman, fragile, strong, northern life is my domicile, my barbaric yawp exudes against the tide
Leave a Reply