A Good Swim
There was just a moment there
when I thought, this time it is I
who have done her in.
Poor Plath, you’ve got no luck,
I guess. First you stick
your head in the oven,
Then I forget,
and leave your poems on the beach.
Later I remember. I come back
to search. The moon is full;
the tide high, the poems
have been swept away, drowned.
You don’t deserve all this misery,
but maybe a good swim
is what you needed
to make you less depressed.