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| Sylvia Plath |
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| Medallion | ||||
| By the gate with star and moon Worked into the peeled orange wood The bronze snake lay in the sun Inert as a shoelace; dead But pliable still, his jaw Unhinged and his grin crooked, Tongue a rose-colored arrow. Over my hand I hung him. His little vermillion eye Ignited with glassed flame As I turned him in the light; When I split a rock one time The garnet bits burned like that. Dust dulled his back to ochre The way sun ruins a trout. Yet his belly kept its fire Going under the chainmail, The old jewels smoldering there In each opaque belly-scale: Sunset looked at through milk glass. And I saw white maggots coil Thin as pins in the dark bruise Where his innards bulged as if He were digesting a mouse. Knifelike, he was chaste enough, Pure death´s-metal. The yardman´s flung brick perfected his laugh. |
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