Post-Poem Plath?

This morning I was at my grandparents' house watching over my granddad. He has been in and outta the hospital since January when he had a killer stroke. I guess it wasn't really a killer stroke, on account of he's still alive, in a hollow, dictionary definition sort of way, but you catch my meaning. There's nothing left for the man to do. I moved the computer upstairs from the basement (he's hampered by stairs now) and while I did so he drifted about the house, knocked over a table, sat in the living room, then the yard. He can't read anymore and television bores him. I cannot imagine how frustrating it must be. He hates it, his helplessness. I think I do too.

It was a quiet morning, so I read. Silvia Plath struck me, in an unanticipated, dopaminergic sort-of way. I was surprised. On the pretense of her publicized depression and suicide I was expecting bleakly insightful musings, valid and thoughtful justification for her unhappiness. But "Mussel Hunter at Rock Harbour" was rich! The poet sounds awestruck and intrigued, if isolated. I am curious to see if her poems become as morbid as they're reputed to be. The anthology I stole (I only steal art from dead creators) presents them in chronological order and I'm only at 1959. She hasn't even had kids yet.