Uploaded May 2013 | Updated September 2026, 18 hours ago

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Edge by Sylvia Plath
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 at 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 odors 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.

About the poet -- Sylvia Plath (1932 -- 1963) was an American poet, novelist and short story writer. She was born in Boston, Massachusetts in USA. She is credited with advancing the genre of confessional poetry.

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