"An Ode to the 50's Housewife, or Go Go Sylvia Plath" by Louisa Schnaithmann
Well, I crawled through the woodwork,
Ate my way through the plaster and plywood,
And now I am standing here on my two little legs,
The claws hooked, my tail shifting back and forth
Like a radar dish, waiting.
I will be the one to scurry through your pantry,
Eat all the cheese, the macaroni, the black beans, even.
A hungry bastard, a squirming menace,
I hear and see all.
The thrown, shattered plates, the red-faced husband,
The bottles, clear and green and grey, shimmering in the aftermath.
You will not come home again: your apron wrecked, the curlers in the toilet;
Fallen, destitute.
You will hear me, swat at me through the walls; the traps are meaningless.
Your bags are packed, the pills in their bottles.
Give the children some milk and cookies; turn on the oven.
Valium, gasoline, bleach, carbon monoxide:
All of these are preferable to this glass box
In which you have found yourself, wanting.
So, on I go, climbing the pipes, vibrating with the rush of water.
This is my home sweet home; I chew on a toothpick, watching you make
Your way out.
This is not an end
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