By Sylvia Plath
I have done it again.
One years in every ten
I manage it —
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as Nazi Lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel of the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify? —
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I smiling woman.
I am only thirty
And like a cat I have nine times to die.
This is number three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Then unwrap me hand and foot—
The big strip tease.
Gentleman, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It`s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a change
For the eying of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart—
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash –
You poke and stir
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there –
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
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