Saturday, July 23, 2022

Poppies in July by Sylvia Plath

Poppies in July

 
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
 
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
 
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
 
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
 
If I could bleed, or sleep!
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
 
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
 
But colorless. Colorless.



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