by Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath

Day of mist: day of tarnish
with hands
unserviceable, I wait
for the milk van
the one-eared cat
laps its gray paw
and the coal fire burns
outside, the little hedge leaves are
become quite yellow
a milk-film blurs
the empty bottles on the windowsill
no glory descends
two water drops poise
on the arched green
stem of my neighbor's rose bush
o bent bow of thorns
the cat unsheathes its claws
the world turns
today I will not
disenchant my twelve black-gowned examiners
or bunch my fist
in the wind's sneer.

Last updated January 14, 2019