you cannot hear me    no

you cannot   I am dead

so leave me alone


words lacerate the dawn

of your final preparations

breakfast for sleeping children

snug in their beds


fifty years ago you

railed against Daddy

Ted the cheater    Ted the beater

scorn    a wound that will not heal

ignore me if you dare


press play on the screen

your face and then your voice

the accusations in your patrician drawl

the stab of your New England vowels


oh Sylvia!    I cradle your book

I hear you read your poems

words leaking through your defences

the carefully applied

seal to windows and doors

the sibilant sound

of gas from the stove

head resting on the cold metal door

only you knew what

you had long practised and planned

in that cold London flat


you are dead   dead   dead

but you still accuse   still



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