Sylvia Plath
Morning Song (c. 1960)
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. |
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The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry |
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Took its place among the elements. |
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Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. |
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In a drafty museum, your nakedness |
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Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. |
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I'm no more your mother |
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Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow |
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Effacement at the wind's hand. |
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All night your moth-breath |
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Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: |
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A far sea moves in my ear. |
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One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral |
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In my Victorian nightgown. |
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Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square |
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Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try |
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Your handful of notes; |
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The clear vowels rise like balloons. |