Naming It

On reading that Sylvia Plath’s daughter

Frieda is becoming a bereavement counselor

Faint strains
of strained attention –
wherein I sense
a Waterloo –

connect me over
distances – to you:
and you are not
the winning side.

Like Bonaparte,
you are the dark part
of the heart.
I cannot reach

into your mêlée
without injuring
my hand:
I need my hand.

You’ll ride down
thinking
you will conquer
other lands –

perhaps you can;
but watching
from the cliff
I sit on? No.

The day beats drums,
all blue
and loud and slow:
for you.

For you,

my mother.

Mom,

for you.

.