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

Mary's Song

Sylvia Plath

The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity. . . .

A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire

Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float

Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.

Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle.  On the high

Precipice
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.

It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will kill and eat.


Submitted by Samuel Biagetti

Added: 16 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 19 Oct 2018 8:17 PM | Viewed: 10876 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/7891/ | Viewed on 19 October 2018.
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