muhtesem bir sylvia plath siiri.
"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 face a featureless, fine
jew linen.
peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
do i terrify?----
the nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
the sour breath
will vanish in a day.
soon, soon the flesh
the grave cave ate will be
at home on me
and i a smiling woman.
i am only thirty.
and like the cat i have nine times to die.
this is number three.
what a trash
to annihilate each decade.
what a million filaments.
the peanut-crunching crowd
shoves in to see
them unwrap me hand and foot
the big strip tease.
gentlemen, ladies
these are my hands
my knees.
i may be skin and bone,
nevertheless, i am the same, identical woman.
the first time it happened i was ten.
it was an accident.
the second time i meant
to last it out and not come back at all.
i rocked shut
as a seashell.
they had to call and call
and pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
dying
is an art, like everything else,
i do it exceptionally well.
i do it so it feels like hell.
i do it so it feels real.
i guess you could say ive a call.
its easy enough to do it in a cell.
its easy enough to do it and stay put.
its the theatrical
comeback in broad day
to the same place, the same face, the same brute
amused shout:
a miracle!
that knocks me out.
there is a charge
for the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
for the hearing of my heart----
it really goes.
and there is a charge, a very large charge
for a word or a touch
or a bit of blood
or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
so, so, herr doktor.
so, herr enemy.
i am your opus,
i am your valuable,
the pure gold baby
that melts to a shriek.
i turn and burn.
do not think i underestimate your great concern.
ash, ash ---
you poke and stir.
flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
a cake of soap,
a wedding ring,
a gold filling.
herr god, herr lucifer
beware
beware.
out of the ash
i rise with my red hair
and i eat men like air."
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