Detah & Co.

Two, of course there are two.It seems perfectly natural now——The one who never looks up, whose eyes are liddedAnd balled¸ like Blake's.Who exhibitsThe birthmarks that are his trademark——The scald scar of water,The nudeVerdigris of the condor.I am red meat. His beakClaps sidewise: I am not his yet.He tells me how badly I photograph.He tells me how sweetThe babies look in their hospitalIcebox, a simpleFrill at the neckThen the flutings of their IonianDeath-gowns.Then two little feet.He does not smile or smoke.The other does thatHis hair long and plausiveBastardMasturbating a glitterHe 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.

Sylvia Plath