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Death and Co.

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Written by Sylvia Plath

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

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