Through frost-thick weather <br />This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if <br />Caught in a hazardous medium that might <br />Merely by its continuing <br />Attach her to heaven. <br /> <br />At eye's envious corner <br />Crow's-feet copy veining on a stained leaf; <br />Cold squint steals sky's color; while bruit <br />Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue <br />Backtalks at the raven <br /> <br />Claeving furred air <br />Over her skull's midden; no knife <br />Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit <br />Waylays simple girls, church-going, <br />And what heart's oven <br /> <br />Craves most to cook batter <br />Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf, <br />Ready, for a trinket, <br />To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding, <br />Flesh unshriven. <br /> <br />Against virgin prayer <br />This sorceress sets mirrors enough <br />To distract beauty's thought; <br />Lovesick at first fond song, <br />Each vain girl's driven <br /> <br />To believe beyond heart's flare <br />No fire is, nor in any book proof <br />Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut; <br />So she wills all to the black king. <br />The worst sloven <br /> <br />Vies with best queen over <br />Right to blaze as satan's wife; <br />Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out. <br />Some burn short, some long, <br />Staked in pride's coven. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/vanity-fair/
