Poem - "Death & Co." by Sylvia Plath

"Death & Co." 
by Sylvia Plath

Two, of course there are two.

It seems perfectly natural now--
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits

The birthmarks that are his trademark--

The scald scar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak

Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.

He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple

Frill at the neck

Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.

The other does that

His hair long and plausive
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter
He wants to be loved.

I do not stir.

The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.

Somebody's done for.