till the oven seemed the proper place for you.
I brood upon your face, the geography of grief,
hooded, till I allow
again your resignation from us now
though the screams of orphaned children fix me anew.
Your torment here was brief,

long falls your exit all repeatingly,
a poor exemplum, one more suicide,
to stack upon the others
till stricken Henry with his sisters & brothers
suddenly gone pauses to wonder why he
alone breasts the wronging tide.

Suicidio, tu rostro brota de mi mesa.

Tu fuerza vino como torrente hacia el final

de rabia y agonía.

Al principio te bautizaron Silvia Plath

pero cambiaste ese nombre por el de Mrs. Hughes,

diste a luz y seguiste a lo largo de la curva