I can see why Plath wrote those luminous poems post-partum.
Your mind plays tricks on you then. Nicholas’s cries rising like balloons,
was it? – the boy love ‘d set going like a fat gold watch.
Like an acid trip gone wrong, like the paranoid phase of being stoned,
where suddenly you think you've got all of it wrong.
Someone else's baby
all done up in woolly hat, leggings, navy booties,
seated in a homemade push car made of wire and bits of junk,
baleful and sad and piteous,
the planes of its face set in misery.