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.
Added: 7 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 8:59 AM | Viewed: 30926 times
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Sylvia Plath
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