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