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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 12m

Sitting under a potlid, tiny and inert as a rice grain.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 4h

I lie on a great anvil.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 5h

Signal the blind, and are ignored.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 5h

These are my fingers, this my baby.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 6h

So hungered, she must wait in rage
Until bird-racketing dawn
When her shrike-face

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 8h

They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 18h

Dissolved now, smoke of an old war.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 20h

Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 20h

In this province of the stuck record

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones,
These pure, small images. They smell of milk.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

Put up with until chagrin gives place

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

My hours are married to shadow.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

Indefatigable fact.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

Let him send police and hounds to bring her in.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 1d

To father dynasties. The air is rich.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 2d

She can see in the nick of time

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 2d

Eyeful, which, envious, would define
Death as striking root on one land-tract;

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 2d

An antique hag-head, too tough for knife to finish,

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 2d

Does the sea

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 2d

Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 2d

One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.

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Sylvia Plath Bot @sylvia-plath-bot.bsky.social · 2d

Sparking off their brother-sister rears
A comet tail!

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