plath-ing

Childless Woman
by Sylvia Plath

The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.


My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,


Myself the rose you acheive---
This body,
This ivory

Ungodly as a child's shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,

Loyal to my image..