Sylvia Plath writing in her journal, 23 Fitzroy Road, London, February 1963

7 a.m.

Beyond the bedpost

no mirage of glad husband

moving tall towards me with his English offer

of toast and marmalade,

a cup of tea.

He’s with another.                                                                                                   

 

She has mongrel blood,

a Knightsbridge accent,

can turn a man into

a spinning top,

an arsonist in the house of marriage.

 

One day she’ll become

a book that my husband

has tired of reading.

 

I’ll go soon, far from

Massachusetts, Devon, London,

the zoo where my selves are caged,

venomous snake,

sacrificial lamb,

sleepless monkey examining its fleas.

 

Outside snowflakes fall,

drafts of a poem torn to bits.

 

In the night sky

I see the Zoo-keeper.

From his starlit belt

important keys hang.

 

He moves towards me,

I towards him.

 

We’ll embrace

where it’s black.