Morning Song
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
-Sylvia Plath, Ariel
In her stanza, "I'm no more your mother..." I wonder how this thought arose? She seems to regard this new little life so differently than her own. I love how the baby tries the "handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons". So very sweet and catching...
ReplyDeleteThis poem is a trip.
ReplyDeleteDoes love set gold watches? Moth-breath? I can’t dodge the moth image. Dull stars. And to top it off I high the baby crying rising in both pitch and volume.