i have done it again
one year in every ten
i manage it

a sort of walking miracle, my skin
bright as a nazi lampshade,
my right foot
a paperweight,
my face a featureless, fine
jew linen

peel off the napkin
o my enemy.
do i terrify?

the nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
the sour breath
will vanish in a day

soon, soon the flesh
the grave cave ate will be
at home on me

and i a smiling woman.
i am only thirty
and like the cat i have nine times to die

this is number three
what a trash
to annihilate each decade

what a million filaments
the peanut-crunching crowd
shoves in to see

them unwrap me hand and foot
the big strip tease
gentlemen, ladies

these are my hands
my knees
i may be skin and bone,

nevertheless, i am the same, identical woman
the first time it happened i was ten
it was an accident

the second time i meant
to last it out and not come back at all
i rocked shut

as a seashell
they had to call and call
and pick the worms off me like sticky pearls
dying
is an art, like everything else,
i do it exceptionally well

i do it so it feels like hell.
i do it so it feels real
i guess you could say i've a call

it's easy enough to do it in a cell
it's easy enough to do it and stay put
it's the theatrical

comeback in broad day
to the same place, the same face, the same brute
amused shout:
'a miracle!'
that knocks me out.
there is a charge

for the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
for the hearing of my heart
it really goes

and there is a charge, a very large charge
for a word or a touch
or a bit of blood

or a piece of my hair or my clothes
so, so, herr doktor.
so, herr enemy.

i am your opus,
i am your valuable,
the pure gold baby

that melts to a shriek
i turn and burn
do not think i underestimate your great concern

ash, ash
you poke and stir
flesh, bone, there is nothing there

a cake of soap,
a wedding ring,
a gold filling

herr God, herr lucifer
beware
beware

out of the ash
i rise with my red hair
and i eat men like air


sylvia plath