My mother read Plath
with her toes curled up,
spilling her sherry
as knife slit skin from skin.
She turned the pages quickly
to find bloody bits
and underlined any
reference to whiteness.
She studied a photograph
of Sylvia in a dirndl skirt
and compared the blueness
of their eyes in a mirror.
She kept wide masking tape
in a dark cupboard
and always made sure
there was bread and milk
for a rainy day.
© Fran Hill
Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.
