18 Temmuz 2010 Pazar

Edge by Sylvia Plath

The woman is perfected
Her dead


Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity


Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare


Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.


Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little


Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded


Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden


Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.


The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.


She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

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