Death &Amp; Co.

Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now——
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits

The birthmarks that are his trademark——
The scald scar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak

Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple

Frill at the neck
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.

The other does that
His hair long and plausive
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter
He wants to be loved.

I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.

Somebody's done for.

by Sylvia Plath

Comments (1)

I see and feel the beauty of the bloody truth, yet the subect itself, may escape me. There may be truth in the assumption that some Poets do not care if the reader 'guesses correctly, ' the subject/topic of their poem. Some are quite satisfied to cause the reader to postulate, to present ideas, no matter how far off the mark they may be, they did, think. I wish Sylvia would reply to this comment, but I don't 'think, ' she will, but she may smile quietly, forvever.