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


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


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About Me

poet, diarist, writer, teacher, woman, fragile, strong, northern life is my domicile, my barbaric yawp exudes against the tide


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