I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
Them unwrap me hand in foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
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Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Poem by: Sylvia Plath.
Sta.sh
