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Sylvia Plath - Mary's Song

The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity. . . .

A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire

Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float

Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.

Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle.  On the high

Precipice
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.

It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will kill and eat.

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Added: Feb 21 2003 | Viewed: 354 times | Comments and analysis of Mary's Song by Sylvia Plath Comments (35)

Mary's Song - Comments and Information

Poet: Sylvia Plath
Poem: Mary's Song
Volume: The Collected Poems
Poem of the Day: Jun 2 2012

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