Sylvia

how ingenious
a photo taken
the year of their marriage,
hands grasping his
around her waist

and years later
arms holding their children
and in between,
the New England tanned blonde
to English mouse brown pale

still

always those dark eyes
penetrating
telling on herself,
showing plainly

the frailty, the pain
the wire she walks
between
brilliance and sanity

between
chaos and poetry,
between a child's cold
and suicide

still

coveting the prolific,
the tenacity
and determination,
yet fearing
the unstable nature

the lover, the writer
their father
she was so lucky
never seeing another
the way she saw him

but he wasn't there
when she passed over,
gassed and found
alone and still warm
on the kitchen floor

still

God forgive me
I've wished I was her
in all her brilliance
before that cold morning