quinta-feira, 15 de setembro de 2011

Sylvia Plath



Face Lift

You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping   silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I'm all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana gas through a frog-mask. The nauseous vault
Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.

They've changed all that. Traveling
Nude as Cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift,
Fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous,
I roll to an anteroom where a kind man
Fists my fingers for me. He makes me feel something
precious
Is leaking from the finger-vents. At the count of two
Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard ...
I don't know a thing.

For five days I lie in secret,
Tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow.
Even my best friend thinks I´m in the country.
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
When I grin, the stitches tauten. I grow backward. I'm
twenty,
Broody and in long skirts on my first husband's sofa, my
fingers
Buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle;
I hadn't a cat yet.

Now she's done for, the dewIapped lady
I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror
Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
They've trapped her in some laboratory jar

Sylvia Plath
 Poems  selected by Ted Hughes
Faber Poetry
 FF
faber and faber

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