by Sylvia Plath

    I have done it again.

    One year in every ten

    I manage it——

    A sort of walking miracle， my skin

    Bright as a Nazi¹ lampshade，

    My right foot

    A paperweight，

    My face a featureless， fine

    Jew linen².

    Peel off the napkin

    O my enemy.

    Do I terrify？——

    The nose， the eye pits， the full set of teeth？

    The sour breath

    Will vanish in a day.

    Soon， soon the flesh

    The grave cave ate will be

    At home on me

    And I a smiling woman.

    I am only thirty.

    And like the cat I have nine times to die.

    This is Number Three.

    What a trash

    To annihilate³ each decade.

    What a million filaments⁴.

    The peanut-crunching crowd

    Shoves in to see

    Them unwrap me hand and foot——

    The big strip tease.

    Gentlemen， ladies

    These are my hands

    My knees.

    I may be skin and bone，

    Nevertheless， I am the same， identical woman.

    The first time it happened I was ten.

    It was an accident.

    The second time I meant

    To last it out and not come back at all.

    I rocked shut As a seashell.

    They had to call and call

    And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

    Dying Is an art， like everything else.

    I do it exceptionally well.

    I do it so it feels like hell.

    I do it so it feels real.

    I guess you could say I've a call.

    It's easy enough to do it in a cell.

    It's easy enough to do it and stay put.

    It's the theatrical⁵ Comeback in broad day To the same place， the same face， the same brute⁶ Amused shout：

    'A miracle！' That knocks me out.

    There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars， there is a charge For the hearing of my heart It really goes.

    And there is a charge， a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

    So， so， Herr Doktor.

    So， Herr Enemy.

    I am your opus，

    I am your valuable，

    The pure gold baby

    That melts to a shriek⁷.

    I turn and burn.

    Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

    Ash， ash You poke⁸ and stir.

    Flesh， bone， there is nothing there

    A cake of soap，

    A wedding ring，

    A gold filling.

    Herr God， Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.

    Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air

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