Death & Co.
Lápida de Sylvia Plath
Otro poema de Sylvia Plath.
Esos versos finales son fantásticos: I do not stir. / The frost makes a flower, / The dew makes a star, / The dead bell, / The dead bell.
Somebody’s done for.
Death & Co.
Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now —
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake’s.
Who exhibits
The birthmarks that are his trademark —
The scald scar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple
Frill at the neck
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that
His hair long and plausive
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter
He wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody’s done for.
