To Sylvia Plath

February 11, 2025


Each year when the sharp
threat of snow
pierces me as I walk the dog,

I think of you. Of your impossible
words piled
on the desk waiting to be pressed

between the covers of your last
book, waiting
in your bedroom while you

fiddled with the gas. I refuse
to believe
this is what you wanted.

Certain he would find you—
save you
from the fire in your brain.

Unappreciated, you made him
what he was.
Wounded, abandoned with endless

childcare. Insatiable need
of babies
crying into the harsh morning light.

They take and take until
there is nothing
recognizable left. I know this can drive

you to a room full of weapons—
knives, flame, gas
until you think, in sleep-deprived

delirium that they are calling
offering oblivion—
a lover’s hand on your neck.

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Jennifer Franklin is the author of three poetry collections, including If Some God Shakes Your House (Four Way, 2023), finalist for the Paterson Prize and the Julie Suk Award. Her work has been commissioned by The Metropolitan Museum, and published in American Poetry Review, The Paris Review, “poem-a-day” on poets.org, and Poetry in Motion. She won a Pushcart Prize, a NYFA grant, and a CRCF Award. She is cofounder of Words Like Blades reading series.