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,

Uttering nothing but blood—-
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest

My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on whatsapp
Share on telegram
Share on email

Read More Poetry

Ode to a Nightingale By John Keats

Ode to a Nightingale By John Keats My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some

Download
Get a copy sent to your email right NOW!
Free Poetry Editing
Checklist & Guidelines
Download Free Checklist
Download
Get a copy sent to your email right NOW!
Free Poetry Editing
Checklist & Guidelines
Download Free Checklist
Join Our Family & Subscribe To Our Newsletter
Privacy Policy: This information will never be shared with third parties.
Subscribe Now!
Join Our Family & Subscribe To Our Newsletter
Privacy Policy: This information will never be shared with third parties.
Subscribe Now!