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Plath, 1963

Plath, 1963

(After Rick Barot)

It is important to take these things into consideration; she
attended a party that spring of 1956 with the intention of
meeting him, an illustrious man already in his own
right, and possessing the faculty and form she so
desperately aspired to. Her greatest work was still sitting
within her then, and he would release many things
inside her in the years that followed: two children and
her book, of memory of a life once lived and almost
lost, a mind electrified and liberated in the telling.
He gave her those gifts, and one must weigh the density of those
objects against the other ones he took from her in kind: a
cherished friend, a third child, her sanity that was already held
together by only the finest of strings and steadily
unraveling; the letter in her cold hands, the words written
with ink and paper like a love letter to another man,
her beloved therapist, whom she frequently spoke to about her
husband and father, who authored a book about the bumblebee;1
the man died of an illness of the lung a week before her birthday.
Her letter that September to the doctor said he’d told her
that he wished that she was dead.
Everything she ever did was done with such consideration
and quiet care back then, even after the separation;
lipstick carefully applied, wet towels lining the windows
and the crack between the door and the floor. The bread
and the milk carefully laid out and ready for her daughter
and her son, asleep in an adjacent room.
1 (a pollinator which, contrary to popular belief, does not die when it stings but will survive and keep on stinging).

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