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My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?

I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax, foetus or cat,
Lever of his wet dreams.

Something is gone.
My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin
Drops me from a terrible altitude.
Carapace smashed,
I spread to the beaks of birds.

O little gimlets—
What holes this papery day is already full of!
He his been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that color,
Surely the grass should be rippling.

All day, gluing my church of burnt matchsticks,
I dream of someone else entirely.
And he, for this subversion,
Hurts me, he
With his armor of fakery.

His high cold masks of amnesia.
How did I get here?
Indeterminate criminal,
I die with variety—
Hung, starved, burned, hooked.

I imagine him
Impotent as distant thunder,
In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration.
I wish him dead or away.
That, it seems, is the impossibility.

That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?

Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath1932-1963

Sylvia Plath var en amerikansk forfatter. Hun var født i Boston av en tysk far og en østerriksk-amerikansk mor. Hun ble regnet for å være et begavet barn, og allerede som åtteåring publiserte hun sitt første dikt. Hun skrev senere både romaner, noveller, dikt og essay. Hennes mest kjente verk, romanen Glassklokken, var en semi-biografisk beretning om hennes kamp mot klinisk depresjon. Plath begikk selvmord i 1963, og hun har etter det fått en tilnærmet ikonisk status i enkelte miljøer.  (fra Wikipedia)