I have Plath on one shoulder,
Y Storni en el otro.
Sus cuentos, que muy similares son, me guían.
No a su mismo fin, pero me impulsan a crear uno propio.
Sus fines fueron tan poéticos como ellas.
Storni en el mar, no alcanzaba el aire
Como ella misma cuando no alcanzaba su amor poético.
Su adios fue tan dramático como su poesía.
Plath, on the other hand, was not as dramatic, but just as poetic.
She left very matter-of-fact,
The same way one could cut an onion and accidentally cut ones finger
Or how passing out during an overdose is just as casual as sleep.
In an oven.
As a good wife should.
Yet she rejected the good wife norm.
She lived by it because she knew no more.
Her world was limited.
Her world was a bell jar within a bell jar
While one lifted, one still remained.
The air in the larger one was conformist
Just as sticky, just as oppressive, just as much of a stench,
But enough powder and perfume to cover it up.
She was right.
She could not escape the bell jar.
The larger one was too large for her to lift alone,
and forced the smaller one back down on her.
She knew the larger one was there but she lacked a name for it.
She went insane as the world denied her knowledge.
I am grateful that larger bell jar has begun to lift.
Y como se ha levantado,
Puedo yo respirar como no pudo Storni en ese mar congelante
Y como no pudo Sylvia en ese orno patriarcal
Claro, no es fácil encontrar donde respirar.
Pero se puede
Entre nosotras,
se puede.
