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Sylvia on the Dashbord
by Lisa Marie Brodsky
Martyr? What does it mean?
In my box of a bedroom
hot box of hell at sixteen
I was young and impressionable.
I read your books
tasted the last lick of death
from your finger.
It is a tragedy. We all have seen it:
young girls who grow their hair long
over their face
and walk in shades of gray
reading Ariel in fervor
The Bell Jar in fever
the Unabridged Journals
forgetting
that you were human, too,
with moods and stamping times
and that you, too, were allowed a day full of fat
doughy happiness.
I never envisioned you happy. It wasnt in your books.
Weve made you into our martyr,
our own Sylvia Bobble Head
we bounce for luck. We dye
your hair platinum blonde, then
back to brown; we paint your lips
red.
Mothers would like to put
a poison sign on your books.
A latch to keep them shut
so we cant open to any page
and hide in the cellar with you for days.
11/25/2004 Author's Note: part of the Sylvia series
Posted on 11/25/2004
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Anne Boulender on 06/03/06 at 07:28 AM that was a stage i finally got over. not that she wasn't a good writer, but you can only take so much after a while. i used to collect all these sylvia plath related books. i wonder how much i could get if i sold them all online. |
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