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JASMINE THERESE
"I only love simplicity. I have a horror of pretence."
- Saint Thérèse of Lisieux

Jasmine Ng

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Wednesday, August 29, 2007


Currently Playing:
Fields of Gold
Eva Cassidy





Edge

The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far; it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One of each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odours bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

-----

The last poem Sylvia Plath wrote before she died. Amazing.