A child thrived,
your love survived
the wafting gas of that chilly, chilly morning…
An inheritance fell upon your heart
the day your mother fell upon the floor….
Her tortured soul …… no more…
Life marches on.
Your Mother’s gone.
Her bequest speckled your Father’s shelves….
A beckoning tempest of death’s notebooks calling –
calling your young eyes to find her soul within …
But she wasn’t there, was she?
Atwixt those words, those lines of Collected Poems?
Where is she now?
Do you find her in the streaking world that blasts by your Hyabusa?
And what of I? Or us?
Are we but pixels in this wash of color that
now wallpapers your periphery?
When the whirlwind stops,
when the chase ends
and the dizziness of motion fades
you will find us all here,
loving you desperately………
I will be the sparkling pixel, dear Frieda…
“My problem is that I am the daughter of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath,
but I wanted to be an individual. But we are, of course, a product of
our parents. In denying them, you deny part of who you are. It’s taken
me years to be comfortable with that”