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www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry
Lady Lazarus
I have done it again.

One year in every ten
I manage it_____
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.

Do I terrify?-------
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.

What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.

The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand in foot ------
The big strip tease.

Gentleman , ladies
These are my hands
My knees.

I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut
As a seashell.

They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.

It's easy enough to do it and stay put.

It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.

There is a charge
For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.


(1962)
Written by: Sylvia Plath

Book: Reflection on the Important Things