The Whore
nevertheless i cry in withered tone
or in a flat note in case no one discerns
the difference: the hands are drawn
its lines had cloven a certain shade of cleave,
calling and tempting, aiming as it maims
a lustful countenance overhandedly springing
sidewise toward the nights of your wishes.
From between the middle-tarned sweat
towards this evidence of motion moving slow
like a smoke of the likes of pangaea's only running
force, your dream and lust for the guy
who drops and drips only a slow kin after itself
after all the ridges from lines and half-memorized
stories of us-the lust and hands side by side
on your laps and his-
remains nonetheless elusive.
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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