Sylvia Plath

Childless Woman

The womb Rattles its pod, the moon Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go. My landscape is a hand with no lines, The roads bunched to a knot, The knot myself, Myself the rose you acheive--- This body, This ivory Ungodly as a child's shriek. Spiderlike, I spin mirrors, Loyal to my image, Uttering nothing but blood--- Taste it, dark red! And my forest My funeral, And this hill and this Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.

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