Sylvia is alone upstairs,
Braiding ribbons through her hair
And putting flowers in strategically natural positions.
Ted, get off your ass and tell her that you need her
Like I need her. Assia is on the phone, but her voice
Is distant, and Sylvia's resonates down the stairs like an angel.

Sylvia, do you recall that day in the strawberry fields? You were an angel,
Pink and laughing, sad when I saw you from the upstairs
Of the barn. I know your secrets from that day: I heard your voice
Call out in alarm; I saw your hair
Dissheveled and messy. When you catch a glimpse of her,
You cannot help but cry -- her hands are beautiful in that position.

"Sylvia," he said, "you put me in a fucking awful position."
You sat, frozen, praying for an angel
Or a miracle. You thought surely you'd be saved by thinking of her
Face. In that big house, upstairs,
You bathe Angelica and smile as you brush her hair.
You are peace and beauty at the sound of her voice.

Sylvia, I regret that I could never voice
My true feelings. All I could do was sit each evening, in the same position,
And watch the light absorb into your hair
While you carefully boiled our angel-
Hair pasta. I never followed you upstairs.
Ted always said, "I cannot stand her

Habits, that Sylvia. The way she changes her
Voice
When you come around." I saw your gaze, the way you stared
At him with nothing but contempt. You had him locked in position.
You are crying while Angelica
Sits behind you, runs her fingers through your hair.

When they found you, I ran up the stairs to fix your hair,
Left you in a delicate position. I never really liked her
Much -- for me, it was always your voice, my angel.