Like the loss of a limb
or a missing *****,
whether an arm, kidney
or half of a heart.
Every bone numbed,
laden with pins and needles,
every puppet-like move
languid, free of joy.
Hoping for a letter,
brandy to spike your mood,
but for now it’s Yeats on the moors
as you long for your wife.
Written: January 2014.
Explanation: A poem that is likely to be part of my third-year university dissertation regarding Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. In a letter to his wife dated 3rd October 1956, Hughes claims 'It's true how you feel amputated in some way ... I sit around in a daze of shock...' in reference to how he wishes his wife were still around (SP was in Cambridge, while TH was in Yorkshire.)