Sylvia Plath October 27th, 1932 - February 11th, 1963

Death & Co. (from "Ariel")

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 birthmakrs 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.

(November 14th, 1962)


Sylvia - Rest In Peace