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 — there.
He’s there.
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 antagonist, none just anyone could rise to.
Just you.
Sylvia Plath
