All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world: <br />Favored (while suddenly the rains begin <br />Beyond the window) she lies on cushions curled <br />And nibbles an occasional bonbon of sin. <br /> <br />Prim, pink-breasted, feminine, she nurses <br />Chocolate fancies in rose-papered rooms <br />Where polished higboys whisper creaking curses <br />And hothouse roses shed immortal blooms. <br /> <br />The garnets on her fingers twinkle quick <br />And blood reflects across the manuscript; <br />She muses on the odor, sweet and sick, <br />Of festering gardenias in a crypt, <br /> <br />And lost in subtle metaphor, retreats <br />From gray child faces crying in the streets.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/female-author/
