Author: Patricia O Jones

  • A POSTCARD TO SYLVIA PLATH

    I see you clutching poems to your chest still and quiet as a monk praying Alone now- cold dawn creeping into your flat footsteps disappearing down dead end streets the dust accumulating,old scabs and sores, words of worry building cubist music of the mind. Children sleeping, you weeping the sink leaking, wintering of days- wearing…