We all imagine Sylvia in a different way
Burning her captor's notes and coats and handwritten books in the backyard
Or
Beneath the house where she was revived by dirt and coal and a lesser god's spite
Or
Nine years old at a funeral band jam for the not so **** father man

Not love, but pitchers of honey
Not ***, but The Death of the Clock
Not marriage, but midnight's blood
Not children, but oven obsessions - adulterous predecessors