The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. <br />The fat <br />Sacrifices its opacity. . . . <br /> <br />A window, holy gold. <br />The fire makes it precious, <br />The same fire <br /> <br />Melting the tallow heretics, <br />Ousting the Jews. <br />Their thick palls float <br /> <br />Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out <br />Germany. <br />They do not die. <br /> <br />Grey birds obsess my heart, <br />Mouth-ash, ash of eye. <br />They settle. On the high <br /> <br />Precipice <br />That emptied one man into space <br />The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent. <br /> <br />It is a heart, <br />This holocaust I walk in, <br />O golden child the world will kill and eat.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mary-s-song/
