Plath peels back the satin
sheets. Her forefinger feels
the flutter-pulse of her husband’s
like the ribbon spine
on a dog-eared collection
by Keats.

Her talent is delightful to watch unfurl.

Oh yes, and this girl will get the upper
hand yet. See? How she inflames him!

Tricky tip-of-tongue memories
seed a cloud-poem Mr. Hughes
will write tomorrow about Rage,
and Revenge...

“NOT NOW!” he shouts
above Sylvia’s throat-choked moans,
pulling her hair harder and harder with
both hands—yet knowing full well
this marriage of heaven and hell
can’t last.

Sylvia licks
a pencil tip in the afterglow, goes
back to her puzzle, says: “It’s so
sublime, darling, catching you
for once, lost for words...”

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