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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345439" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sylvia's Death</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">For Sylvia Plath</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Sylvia, Sylvia, <br>with a dead box of stones and spoons, <br>with two children, two meteors <br>wandering loose in a tiny playroom, <br>with your mouth into the sheet, <br>into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer, <br>(Sylvia, Sylvia <br>where did you go <br>after you wrote me <br>from Devonshire <br>about raising potatoes <br>and keeping bees?) <br>what did you stand by, <br>just how did you lie down into? <br>Thief - <br>how did you crawl into, <br>crawl down alone <br>into the death I wanted so badly and for so long, <br>the death we said we both outgrew, <br>the one we wore on our skinny breasts, <br>the one we talked of so often each time <br>we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston, <br>the death that talked of analysts and cures, <br>the death that talked like brides with plots, <br>the death we drank to, <br>the motives and the quiet deed? <br>(In Boston <br>the dying <br>ride in cabs, <br>yes death again, <br>that ride home <br>with our boy.) <br>O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer <br>who beat on our eyes with an old story, <br>how we wanted to let him come <br>like a sadist or a New York fairy <br>to do his job, <br>a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib, <br>and since that time he waited <br>under our heart, our cupboard, <br>and I see now that we store him up <br>year after year, old suicides <br>and I know at the news of your death <br>a terrible taste for it, like salt, <br>(And me, <br>me too. <br>And now, Sylvia, <br>you again <br>with death again, <br>that ride home <br>with our boy.) <br>And I say only <br>with my arms stretched out into that stone place, <br>what is your death <br>but an old belonging, <br>a mole that fell out <br>of one of your poems? <br>(O friend, <br>while the moon's bad, <br>and the king's gone, <br>and the queen's at her wit's end <br>the bar fly ought to sing!) <br>O tiny mother, <br>you too! <br>O funny duchess! <br>O blonde thing!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345439" data-title="Sylvia's Death de Anne Sexton" data-description="For Sylvia Plath

O Sylvia, Sylvia, 
with a dead box of stones and spoons, 
with two children, two meteors 
wandering loose in a tiny playroom, 
with your mouth into the sheet, 
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer, 
(Sylvia, Sylvia 
where did ..."></div>
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