i can see why she picked february.
i hate that she was left alone, sick and depressed, with two babies and no support.
"morning poem" has been a go-to poem for me for so many years. i love its metric beauty, that "fat, gold watch" and the way she beautifully and hauntingly describes maternal alienation.
i'd call her a pioneer for this, and maybe she'd have outlasted the hard parts if someone had described how hard and confusing and devastating it can be:
I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand.
Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.
r.i.p., ms. plath------------>>>