I do not know her.
Not in the sense 
  “does anyone really know another person,”
But in the sense
  “she lived a tormented life”
  “she was genius”
  “she eviscerated her soul, and turned it into poetry”
  “she was narcissistic”
  “she was severely depressed”
  “she tried to kill herself before”
No, I do not know her.
My heart attempts to envelop her memory.
I know she still resonates 
In a timely and timeless bond
shared by lost poets.
And myself.

Severely depressed, in the bleak and long winter,
she took her life.
We all know this. 
We all have heard
  of her demons
  her struggles
  her glories
  her failings
She wrote them for the whole world to see.

Yet, before she took her life,
  she attended a dinner party
  readied her children for sleep.
  left food in their room for them.
  left the name of their doctor 
   and other information
  she thought would be needed.
 
Yet, before she took her life,
 before sealing the kitchen windows
   and door
  before turning on the gas
  before neatly placing a folded dish towel in the oven,
   (on which to lay her cheek)
  before sticking her head in the oven
  “as far as it could possibly go”
She took care of her children.

Leaving her coat at her friend’s house
  after she and the children went there for dinner
 Not to have them come and stop her - no!
But to come the next day, to mind the children.