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Sylvia Plath - Edge The woman is perfected Her dead Body wears the… - American Poetry [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
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[Oct. 18th, 2005|10:24 am]
american_poetry

american_poetry

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Sylvia Plath - Edge

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.
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Comments:
[User Picture]From: cant_do_it_4eva
2005-12-17 01:47 am (UTC)

emotion

I liek the emotion in this poem, especially the line...Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden...
(Reply) (Thread)
[User Picture]From: moonglows
2006-01-15 05:25 am (UTC)
I love Plath.
(Reply) (Thread)