Sylvia Plath

Heavy Woman

Irrefutable, beautifully smug As Venus, pedestalled on a half-shell Shawled in blond hair and the salt Scrim of a sea breeze, the women Settle in their belling dresses. Over each weighty stomach a face Floats calm as a moon or a cloud. Smiling to themselves, they meditate Devoutly as the Dutch bulb Forming its twenty petals. The dark still nurses its secret. On the green hill, under the thorn trees, They listen for the millennium, The knock of the small, new heart. Pink-buttoned infants attend them. Looping wool, doing nothing in particular, They step among the archetypes. Dusk hoods them in Mary-blue While far off, the axle of winter Grinds round, bearing down the straw, The star, the wise grey men.

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