for Sylvia Plath

by David Dear 

 

fifty-nine years and three days
Too late. No pre-prepared ersatz

Heat-and-serve sentiments
For you. Think of these words

As a card, home-made, my pen
A scissors, cutting hearts

Of red cardboard. If you could see
How carefully I clip their sides,

Tapering them and rounding,
Like two headlight cones,

Their tops to the necessary
Double curve. If you could see

How cautiously I fit
And paste them to this page. Here,

Let me hand it to you.
Where are your hands?

The ones you placed on your knees
That day at the beach. Its sand

Is still grey in the photo
Against your two-piece’s white,

Your tan still brown against
The perfection of your smile,

Showing for always how
You suited a convertible,

Its top down, the wind in your face and,
Blown back, your red hair,

Like your words
A torch in the wind.