Sylvia Plath
[Poet, b. 1932, Boston, Massachusetts, d. 1963, London.]
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A palace of velvet
With windows of mirrors.
There one is safe,
There are no family photographs,
No rings through the nose, no cries.
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“Oh, sure you know,” the photographer said.
“She wants,” said Jay Cee wittily, “to be everything.”
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My wife, dead and flat, in 1920 furs,
Mouth full of pearls,
Two girls
As flat as she, who whisper ‘We’re your daughters.’
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