The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.
My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,
Myself the rose you acheive--
This body,
This ivory
Ungodly as a child's shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,
Uttering nothing but blood--
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest
My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.
Childless Woman
Sylvia Plath
(1)
Poem topics: child, dark, funeral, moon, red, rose, tree, spin, taste, body, womb, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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