Poetess by Heather Haley

Gin limber, she lies on her tummy
contorting sentences under the lava lamp,
no room in the final note for a litany, 
no space for a nervous breakdown.

Corner-painted, mother bashed,
apron-strung, quirks cosseted,
she conspires like a murderess
to pull a Plath, to stick her head 
in the oven instead of another bun.

Let the loud print dress do all the talking.