Sylvia Plath Words Poems

Axes
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echoes!
Echoes traveling
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I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
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O mud, mud, how fluid! —-
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.
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