By Billie Daddario
I picked Sylvia Plath’s figs.
I ate them till I had my fill.
I saved some on my writing desk
In a silver bowl to look at, or eat later
I wasn’t sure which.
I soon discovered what Sylvia knew about figs.
Eating them all will make you ill.
I ate all the figs that Sylvia could name,
And then I ate some more.
It filled my life,
but left my soul much like the bowl empty.