For Sylvia Plath

For Sylvia Plath So where are you floating now, O genius of misery, The keeper and the kept Of all those mysterious bees? You would frown at an epitaph, I know. But epitaphs are inevitable, You know. Anyone who's read your lines Must wonder at how you did it, How those lines, like tiny chains, Pulling steady, unified; They dragged you down to face the dark In the deepest crevices of the mind - Or perhaps it was you who dragged them? I'm Anybody, and you're another - Two unaquainted mysteries Linked by tiny chains.