Fever 103*

[RavenLunatic]

by: Sylvia Plath

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell are dull,
dull as the triple tongues of dull,
fat Cerberus
who wheezes at the gate.
Incapable of licking clean the
agony tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tender cries.
The indelible smell of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll from
me like Isadora's scarves,
I am in a fright one scarf will catch
and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes make their own element.
They will not rise,
but trundle round the globe
choking the aged,
the meek
the weak.
Hothouse baby in its crib.
The ghastly orchid hanging in its hanging
garden in the air.
Devilish Leopard!
Radiation turned it white
and killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin, the sin.
Darling all night
I've been flicking off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken water,
water make me retch.
I am to pure for you or anyone
Your body hurts me
as the world hurts God.
I am a lantern
my head a moon of Japanese paper,
my gold, beaten skin
infinitely delicate and
infinitely expensive.
Does not my heart astound you.
And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camilla.
Glowing and coming and going
flesh on flesh.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise---
The beads of hot metal fly,
and I love.
I am a pure acetylene virgin
attended by roses,
by kisses,
by cherebim,
by whatever these pink things mean.
Nor you, nor him
Not him , nor him
(myselves dissolving,
old whore petticoats)
to paradise.