Sylvia Plath in Paris

Poem

©Copyright The Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana, USA

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”
― Sylvia Plath

There's a photo of Sylvia Plath

	walking in front of Notre Dame,

so, yes, a reminder that people and churches—

	no matter how timeless—

	can be destroyed by flame.

And I'm also reminded that the Catholic Church

	has caused us Indians

	so much shame


and agony, but I don’t feel

	the need to set fire

	to anybody's faith

or lack of faith. I don’t want

	to judge the source

	of anybody’s pain.

Look at that photo of Sylvia Plath

	walking in front of Notre Dame,


and ask the obvious questions:

	How could that brilliant,

	brilliant woman take

her own life? How could she flee

	her children, her poems,

	and literary acclaim?

She was occasionally Catholic

	and certainly indigenous

	to her island of shame,


but I won’t guess at the names

of the demons that possessed her.

	I won’t judge

	the source of her pain.

Look at her, in brown coat

	and red headband,

	walking away from Notre Dame—


an ordinary tourist with a church

	fire burning, burning

	in her extraordinary brain.

Think of the people who loved her.

	Think of how she left them

	the eternal ache of self-blame.

Think of how the Catholic Church

	turned us Indians

	into pillars of shame.


But, God, I am quite aware

	of how much pain

that I’ve delivered unto my world,

	so I won’t proclaim

innocence. If there is such a thing

	as grace

	then there must be un-grace,

as well. And if there is a Hell,

then let there be an un-Hell

	where I can dwell

	and recognize

	the sacred and profane

inside the Catholic Church,

and where I can also acknowledge 

	the sacred and profane

inside us, the Indians,

and where I can empathize 

	with the sacred and profane

inside every church and poet.

Nothing is pure, nobody is pure.

So let me proffer atonement

and practice forgiveness

	in this world famous

	with faith and shame.