|
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. |
Again, there is a Screwtape feel here that Plath can creatively sense. When most people think of babies, they think of life, but Plath thinks of the demons of death, so casually, who are waiting viewing this same life with a curiosity to take it for themselves.
ReplyDeleteThis is a great poem. It brings a freshness from her other poems.
ReplyDeleteBirthmarks are his trademark!
The woman creates life, but the man takes and possesses the son like her would a company. Is that another death? Being born a women in her time, getting married, being a mother, and also raising a son?