After Sylvia Plath
by Constance Bourg
There is a woman in my life called Mother
who bears no resemblance to Medea.
She married for love, was not caught up in
affairs of lineage and money. A
better future nonetheless, more green,
she hoped for, pressing me to her yellow smock
with the daisies. A pressing hand moves
her along, setting to her task humbly,
tending to two small flames shooting up as
the walls of the house no longer give any
assurance of solidity. Housewife
is a title she discarded. Gone through
more than any person is supposed to, her
loyalties became frail and ruined.
Her image dwelling through various apartments,
she is small and large, her mouth always taking
her words for truth, like bones that make a good stock.
Gabriela Marie Milton
#1 Amazon Bestseller Author
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings