Two, of course there are two. <br />It seems perfectly natural now—— <br />The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded <br />And balled¸ like Blake's. <br />Who exhibits <br /> <br />The birthmarks that are his trademark—— <br />The scald scar of water, <br />The nude <br />Verdigris of the condor. <br />I am red meat. His beak <br /> <br />Claps sidewise: I am not his yet. <br />He tells me how badly I photograph. <br />He tells me how sweet <br />The babies look in their hospital <br />Icebox, a simple <br /> <br />Frill at the neck <br />Then the flutings of their Ionian <br />Death-gowns. <br />Then two little feet. <br />He does not smile or smoke. <br /> <br />The other does that <br />His hair long and plausive <br />Bastard <br />Masturbating a glitter <br />He wants to be loved. <br /> <br />I do not stir. <br />The frost makes a flower, <br />The dew makes a star, <br />The dead bell, <br />The dead bell. <br /> <br />Somebody's done for.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-amp-co/
