What a thrill - <br />My thumb instead of an onion. <br />The top quite gone <br />Except for a sort of hinge <br /> <br />Of skin, <br />A flap like a hat, <br />Dead white. <br />Then that red plush. <br /> <br />Little pilgrim, <br />The Indian's axed your scalp. <br />Your turkey wattle <br />Carpet rolls <br /> <br />Straight from the heart. <br />I step on it, <br />Clutching my bottle <br />Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is. <br />Out of a gap <br />A million soldiers run, <br />Redcoats, every one. <br /> <br />Whose side are they one? <br />O my <br />Homunculus, I am ill. <br />I have taken a pill to kill <br /> <br />The thin <br />Papery feeling. <br />Saboteur, <br />Kamikaze man - <br /> <br />The stain on your <br />Gauze Ku Klux Klan <br />Babushka <br />Darkens and tarnishes and when <br />The balled <br />Pulp of your heart <br />Confronts its small <br />Mill of silence <br /> <br />How you jump - <br />Trepanned veteran, <br />Dirty girl, <br />Thumb stump.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cut/
