Pools collect at the corners of my mouth,
the salt lick familiarity of a bad day.
I spent 25 years earning my reputation,
from a resilient girl into an inflexible woman,
and took only one year to ruin it.
Tears so seldom use to be cause for poetry,
eliciting a memorandum of occasion,
now I drown in my flood gates heedlessly.
I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full. – Sylvia Plath
by Sylvia Plath
By a mad miracle I go intact,
Among the common rout,
Thronging sidewalk, street,
And bickering shops;
Nobody blinks a lid, gapes,
Or cries that this raw flesh
Reeks of the butcher’s cleaver,
Its heart and guts hung hooked,
And bloodied as a cow’s split frame,
Parceled out by white-jacketed assassins.
Oh no, for I strut it clever,
As a greenly escaped idiot,
Buying wine, bread,
Yellow-casqued chrysanthemums –
Arming myself with the most reasonable items,
To ward off, at all cost, suspicions,
Roused by thorned hands, feet, head,
And that great wound,
From the flayed side.
Even as my each mangled nerve-end,
Trills its hurt out,
Above pitch of pedestrian ear,
So, perhaps I, knelled dumb by your absence,
Alone can hear,
Sun’s parched scream,
Every downfall and crash,
Of gutted star,
And, more daft than any goose,
This cracked world’s incessant gabble and hiss.