The Womb

Áttekintés

The womb Rattles its pod, the moon Discharges itself from the tree with now­he­re to go. My lands­ca­pe is a hand with no lines, The roads bun­ched to a knot, The knot myself, Myself the rose you achei­ve — This body, This ivo­ry Fragment of Childless Woman (Sylvia Plath)