Time


I have no time, she says, pouring water for dishes in the sink
Years of time washing over her flitting
memory movies in her brain
Gone like water.
Time weighed on Sylvia Plath
and washing dishes
she knows what that feels like
knows the feeling of heads in ovens
knows the almost relief of
vacations to the beyond
there is only the reality of hot water
hard bone china
silverware
things to do tomorrow that have no meaning other than survival
children far away
a life
left behind her
too late to retrieve
aloneness presses down upon her like lead and too old
now for romance she
sighs
and turns towards pen and empty paper
Sylvia staring back at her with black holes for eyes
time, predator? or
time, friend
she does not know who she sees on the mirror.

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