I think he wrote
while you baked,
made fairy cakes
or something of the sort
while the young ones
whizzed around
like balloons
released from your fingers.
I think he was
your applicant,
not a bad fit,
frothing with wit,
a kiss made you giddy
like a girl
on their first date
in the heaving city.
On a red day
I think you sighed
when hearing boots
in the hallway but beamed
on a blue day
when he strode
through the door, a tie,
another rough wool jumper.
When he rode
those capsules home
I think perhaps you
wished to nick
your thumb again,
see the crimson seep
and weep as a child
over their father.
I think you wore
the smile of accomplishment
on day forty-two,
enough had bruised you,
pinched your skin
so it hurt and burnt pink,
stung a cheek
and left a tender spot.
I think you didn't want to
but did anyway,
felt all your words
had charred and bled black
so inhaled the haze,
swam under the jar
for the last time, before it fell
and cracked on his floor.
Written: April 2013 and April 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time regarding Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. Fitzroy Road is the name of the location she lived at at the time of her death in February of 1963. The poem contains references to some of her work - 'The Applicant', 'A Birthday Present', 'Kindness', 'Cut', 'Daddy', 'Balloons' and 'Edge', as well as her novel The Bell Jar and Hughes's poem 'Red.' This piece took much longer to write than a normal poem. Also uploaded as a Facebook status.