Morning Song – Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath

love set you going like a fat gold watch.

the midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry

took its place among the elements.


our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. new statue.

in a drafty museum, your nakedness

shadows our safety, we stand round blankly as walls.


i’m no more your mother

than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow

effacement at the wind’s hand.


all night your moth-breath

flickers among the flat pink roses. i wake to listen;

a far sea moves in my ear.


one cry, and i stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral

in my victorian nightgown.

your moth opens clear as a cat’s. the window square

whitens and swallows its dull stars. and now you try

your handful of notes;

the clear vowels rise like balloons.


Sylvia Plath.



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