Waiting
furrowed unto the sand is my left hand
arms closed and hands gripped around my chest, weary
bones strifle every inch of this thigh muscle i plan to cut
with my other hand, teeth raw and naked as if it had just
taken a breakfast of corals, ready
to gnaw out everything falling
up from that slope and this trench and those deep uncut cliffs
whose engraved dialogues are wickedly serious in form
and are devoured by these eyes i do not consider mine;
furrowed unto the sand is my right arm
and as i cite and recite all stringed emotions
all things begin to clear out and feel down, down,
in becoming a great mere pause, translated:
I wait for the meeting of the suns.
arms closed and hands gripped around my chest, weary
bones strifle every inch of this thigh muscle i plan to cut
with my other hand, teeth raw and naked as if it had just
taken a breakfast of corals, ready
to gnaw out everything falling
up from that slope and this trench and those deep uncut cliffs
whose engraved dialogues are wickedly serious in form
and are devoured by these eyes i do not consider mine;
furrowed unto the sand is my right arm
and as i cite and recite all stringed emotions
all things begin to clear out and feel down, down,
in becoming a great mere pause, translated:
I wait for the meeting of the suns.
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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