Prefer to think of her riding a horse
that lean strong horse she thought of as her style
than where she rode – fast mile by gloomy mile
to Camden and the oven. If the source
of all she wrote were sadness, aching pain
final despair, we would not care so much.
There’s feather-lightness in her brutal touch
that claws our heart. The scars she leaves remain
for years after we read her, but as well
there’s all that fierce glee, that arrogance,
that sense of grabbing us into her dance
that joy at showing us her private hell.
She laid down, breathed in gas and quickly died.
Being the best at dying was her pride