THE NIGHT BEFORE THE NIGHT THAT SYLVIA PLATH LAYS HER HEAD IN THE OVEN by Hannah Matheson
Sometimes what kills me is serene
as snowfall. Proliferating frozen,
soft inundation, the ceaseless
and so many ways of wanting
to die. I can’t sleep
for the 2 a.m. murmur
of the plows, making their rounds
for hours now, unseeing
metal sweeping and salting.
Rusted chrome in near collision,
compelled by the Sisyphean
labor of cold. To roam
the black in the absolute
zero before dawn;
gathering and gathering and gathering the ice.