Edge

Sylvia Plath
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The woman is perfected.
Her dead
 
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
 
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
 
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
 
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
 
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
 
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
 
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
 
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
 
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

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