“Edge”; a fragment

The woman is perfected.

Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishement,

The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,

Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:

We have come so far it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,

One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty.

 

Sylvia Plath.

 

 

 

Done