Death & Co.

Lápida de Sylvia Platt

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.

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~ por Miguelito en marzo 26, 2009.

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