THE MAID
For Sylvia Plath
errol miller
“She burned batch after batch of cookies.”
Sylvia Plath
She was cooking turnips
for the Queen of Rusty Hearts
she had not been set free, she had on
her noonday apron from creative writing class
she was embracing a classical tropical hurricane
she was chained to a green-gas cook stove
everyone’s eyes were upon her
everyone in the village came to her
with a match, with a moth, with advice
everyone crowded into the parlor
stacking flutes and fiddles and chairs
against the wall, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing
she gave them terrible indigestion
she gave them a flapping raw flounder
she didn’t have time for the band
she had an appointment with The Doctor
she was burning in life’s stew
she was turning a page, crossing
the water at Bakersfield
she was starving
and everyone started to run
to run up to her
to run out to her
to run out with her
at the crossing, at the water
at the black shop where poppies grew
the Tender of the Gears belched
and opened the floodgates
and she like sheep
went in to that compulsive vacuum
a thousand times or more
eternally rowing and bobbing
and rolling her hair
for a formal forlorn dinner.
