| April 18 | |
Poem By: Sylvia Plath | Views: 525 | Word Count: 73 | View PDF | Print View |
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the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight
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About the Author Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963) was born in Boston. Her father was a professor of biology at Boston University, and had specialized in bees. He has been characterized as authoritarian and died of diabetes in 1940 when Plath was eight years old... Read Sylvia Plath's Full Biography
More Poems By Sylvia Plath
1: Jilted
4: Years
5: Death & Co.
6: Frog Autumn
7: April 18
9: Lesbos
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