Your face broods from my table, Suicide. br Your force came on like a torrent toward the end br of agony and wrath. br You were christened in the beginning Sylvia Plath br and changed that name for Mrs Hughes and bred br and went on round the bend br br till the oven seemed the proper place for you. br I brood upon your face, the geography of grief, br hooded, till I allow br again your resignation from us now br though the screams of orphaned children fix me anew. br Your torment here was brief, br br long falls your exit all repeatingly, br a poor exemplum, one more suicide, br to stack upon the others br till stricken Henry with his sisters & brothers br suddenly gone pauses to wonder why he br alone breasts the wronging tide.