A miniature mad talent? Sylvia Plath,
who’ll wipe off the spit of your integrity,
rising in the saddle to lash at Auschwitz,
life tearing this or that, I am a woman?
Who’ll lay the graduate girl in marriage,
queen bee, naked, unqueenly, shaming her shame?
Each English major saying, “I am Sylvia,
I hate marriage, I must hate babies.”
Even men have a horror of giving birth,
mother-sized babies splitting us in half,
sixty thousand American infants a year,
U.I.D., Unexplained Infant Deaths,
born physically whole and hearty, refuse to live,
Sylvia … the expanding torrent of your attack.