Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven 

no matter the time of day!

it won't help you choose, 

Mrs. Hughes,

between Ted or yourself or the children

fitfully sleeping in an adjacent room 

while you fancy some sort of doom. 

your wet towels were a slap in their face 

although stuffed under the doors in no apparent haste,

as part of the scheming.

you became the turkey dreaming 

of her Sunday roast. 

whatever happened to the ghost 

last seen writing on her kitchen floor? 

shouldn't she have arisen and opened the door 

for the au pair at nine? 

the painters with a key on time 

might have been out of breath, 

but it was your death.