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More poems by Sylvia PlathSylvia Plath | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments (17) | Books by Sylvia PlathBooks by Sylvia Plath

Edge

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.

Added: 7 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 19 Jul 2018 2:08 AM | Viewed: 31729 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1392/ | Viewed on 19 July 2018.
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