1963
i can’t believe
sylvia plath
never got to watch
doctor who before
she died.
i wonder if she would have
enjoyed it.
probably not.
i don’t know.
the early seasons carry a
sort of sentiment the
feminist within me wants to hate.
but how can i hate something
i came to love so much.
i annotate my copies of her
poetry collections,
ariel, the colossus, they are
within me.
not one but
two copies of the bell jar
sit upon my shelf.
red and green underlined
passages, words circled,
highlighted, pages dog-eared
and that homely, stale
smell of old books.
i found out her daughter lives
just one hour
away from me.
two things in my life
that never collided
i read her poetry, i know
her life.
she never knew me.
she never could.
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