Our books are mingled,
Hers and mine,
Messed up
Between each other,
Some never opened,
Their pages still pristine,
Some dog-eared and *****.

My biography of Plath,
My Byron,
My poetry and art,
Are hard to find
Between her ****** fictions
And coffee-table tabloids
In lurid colours.

Her crimes and her romances,
Lying evidence
Pushed hurriedly
Out of sight
Between the covers,
On which is inscribed
The name of the one
She nominates
To take the rap,
As if 'She'
Had never authored anything.

And these left
Lying around the house
For me to pick up
And put back
In the same place.

One day I'll bin the lot!