she tells me that she's breathing only that shame again
and that there is nothing i can do to relieve her pain again
she has walked a thousand miles in hand me down shoes
no stretch of roadside can ever quench these travelling blues

i don't know how to feel but yet i pretend to understand
what do i know of her life or this punctuating hard land
bequeathed to her from generations since come and passed
as culture, a sense of identity, a life much too innocent to last

she's reaching out, longing for her own voice to be heard
masquerading empathy i offer all these right and measured words
for with no one to answer to nor no real actions to take
i master in hollow sentiment formed from these feelings i fake

as always i seek the beauty of fragility for only my gain
i play out this butterfly's life as her delicate wings are stung by rain
briefly she flies as her life sparks and dims over fourteen days
by resurrecting my jesus my self satisfaction empowers my ways

so why is it she that carries this shame and i stand left of frame
as a spectator, a commentator, an outsider to the rules of the game
whereas she is the soul of the mythical dancer in the flame
i am the vessel devoid of heart breathing in this cold cold shame

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber ******* or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit——

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

Sylvia Plath, "The Applicant" from The Collected Poems. Copyright © 2008 by Sylvia Plath.  Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Source: The Collected Poems (Faber and Faber, 1989)
Related

There's eight dead in Mississippi.
My hair makes me look like a hippy.
It's awfully cold for the month of June.
I hope it warms up soon.

The skinny chef is serving something strange.
Benjamins are out begging for change.
The shaggy barber gives a skinhead a trim.
The chunky trainer tells me how to get slim.

There's attacks in the UK.
I haven't anything to do today.
I think I'll walk along the railroad.
See how far it goes.

The skinny chef is serving something strange.
Benjamins are out begging for change.
The shaggy barber gives a skinhead a trim.
The chunky trainer tells me how to get slim.

A young boy drowned in the river.
My girl's touch makes my body quiver.
Superteams ruined in NBA.
But that's okay.

The skinny chef is serving something strange.
Benjamins are out begging for change.
The shaggy barber gives a skinhead a trim.
The chunky trainer tells me how to get slim.

I'm not comfy in my streetclothes.
I'd like to be wrapped up in silk.
I poured a big bowl of cherrios .
But I don't have any milk.
Ooohh
I don't have any milk.
Oh no no
I don't have any milk.

Let me lie in your embrace
Of sweetly scented sweat,
My ear against your chest.
Anchored by your breath
That softly plays along my forehead.

The irregular beat of your heart
is a mellifluous lullaby,
It stops the fluttering in my gut;
Pulling the wings of my butterflies.
I feel high when your fingers
Slowly trickle down my spine.

Intoxicating angel,
You were never really mine.
Born to fly, to hover
Over this rotting cesspool of waste.
Your skin is a flavor
That my tongue will always taste.

Let me lie in your embrace
Of sweetly scented sweat,
My ears against your feathers.
My eyes dripping wet.

The irregular beat of my heart
Is a cacophonous reminder of time.
I just want this smell to linger longer;
Like the days we'd pretend you were mine.

-SLuR