On some snowy nights
You can pray from your knees
To the gods in their gaseous form
Emanating quietly from the kitchen stove

Tonight, the writing grows old.
With frozen hands,
There is nothing left to be told
And so you think about her ghost.

How she stood behind you
Within your veiled walls,
With your hungry keyboard broken,
All of the letters like scattered teeth
Waiting to bite the scraps fallen to the floor.

You think about how she gently shook her head
As the silence stretched
Like a beam of light in a teary eye,
Filling up the last of your breaths,
Filling up the tiny room
Like a lover with nothing left to explore.

The ghost of Sylvia Plath,
     Growing tired, sitting on the worn chair.
The ghost of Sylvia Plath,
     On the far end of life with an end-time stare.

Writing makes the writer grow old.
It causes the years to fall like calendars
Breaking the nail on the wall again and again,
Sliding down to smack into the dust
Into just another stack of bitten days.

You remember, how when you moved out
From that tiny coffin with stairs,
You forgot about the ghost of Sylvia Plath.
You left her behind
In the bastardized sound of change –

So you think about her,
Tapping gently on your door once more,
And how you invited her in,
Out from the snowy world of man-erased,
And with your back to her, you said,
“My head feels like a mountain eroded and decayed,”
And she cried, “We’re romanticized nightmares,
From the day that we were made.”

So you drop your frozen hands and go out into the cold,
A long walk around the base of the Appalachia
As the writing ages and the writer is old.
You know that there’s no one there,
You know you have a year or two more
     -At the most.

You learn how to become your own ghost.