there is no noise but in the hollow
of my ear I hear the swift
click of you at a typewriter.
Ignoring the cold chilling London
1962
A steady drip of water from the bath breaks you —
Your Children
through their evening ritual and down;
yours overcomes you now.
Composed, obsessed
and you reach into the depths
and draw only a cut.

A cut? A flap barely worth mentioning.
but from it —
An idea born of mania.
Of course he’s there. He’s always there. Annie said so
and twice before you threw yourself in,
pulled yourself back through.
Surely there would be no difference now.
More than a cut, more than a cut –
a worthy adversary, none just anyone could rise to.
Just you.

Sylvia Plath