Sitting at the state library,
that great bunker for truant nerds
and the elderly.
At the next table
in between text messages,
and instagram likes
a table of private school uniforms
are preparing one more essay on Sylvia Plath.
Dutifully copying out details of
the dissected wreckage of her life,
finding among the bones and coffin splinters,
the pretence of our knowing,
the hermeneutics of the blood,
the black shoe,
and the gas oven hiss.
And all of this is done for ticks in boxes,
for ‘well dones’,
and ‘good to see you did your research’,
and dumb grades.
Could you imagine this Sylvia?
That this is what we would do to you?
That high school teachers
would keep dragging you out of the ground,
and laying your bones out for inspection,
looking for symptom,
pretending like we could ever know
what you looked like on…
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