On Sylvia’s Death Interlude Part II

By Parizad Gaur

Anne Sexton wrote a poem, she grieved on sylvia’s death,

Her dead box of stones and spoons, 

And her Boston ancestry with a 

Tinge of Deutsche flavour, 

Her loneliness, her red hair, mod Californian white shorts on the beach, 

That she died alone, and pushed her head in the microwave, 

Anne wanted it too, to drunk talk about brides, 

Scotch whiskey, and red wine

Death is  a home, where they lived but Sylvia, 

Preceded faster and first and Anne grieved alone, 

Her children waited for their mumma with skinny breasts, to come back,

Maybe her death was her old belonging, 

And the black pebble which Sexton utters a “mole”,

Finally fell out from one of her poems. 

By Parizad Gaur