After the second month, my eyes drew in colours;
movement returned to my fingertips, my lungs
heaved with the weight of it:
I awoke, like a miracle
after the accident
with that foul wound, ribs open,
that traumatic wound in my chest
somehow they’d patched it
together with linen, sutures
and they told me how close I had come
to falling irretrievably,
past all hope, in love.
They stitched me up, put
someone’s ribs back in, left
out of the jigsaw in my chest
(I never mentioned your name, I swear),
prescribed some opiate poison and
they repeated how singularly lucky I had been.
But they said that after the operation
I might never really breathe again, without help, on my own.
And I have since then,
every single day since then,
wished they had left me on the operating table.
Yeah. This is Plath: this is so entirely Plath. As a student I totally Plathed. All over the place. It was horrendous. But then again, we all get our hearts broken: you know what it’s like.