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“Cut” |
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by Sylvia Plath,
October 24, 1962 |
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for Susan O’Neill Roe |
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What a thrill— |
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My thumb instead of an onion. |
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The top quite gone |
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Except for a sort of hinge |
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Of skin, |
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A flap like a hat, |
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Dead white. |
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Then that red plush. |
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Little pilgrim, |
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The Indian's axed your scalp. |
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Your turkey wattle |
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Carpet rolls |
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Straight from the heart. |
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I step on it, |
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Clutching my bottle |
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Of pink fizz. |
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A celebration, this is. |
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Out of a gap |
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A million soldiers run, |
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Redcoats, every one. |
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Whose side are they on? |
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O my |
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Homunculus, I am ill. |
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I have taken a pill to kill |
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The thin |
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Papery feeling. |
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Saboteur, |
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Kamikaze man— |
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The stain on your |
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Gauze Ku Klux Klan |
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Babushka |
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Darkens and tarnishes and when |
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The balled |
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Pulp of your heart |
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Confronts its small |
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Mill of silence |
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How you jump— |
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Trepanned veteran, |
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Dirty girl, |
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Thumb stump. |
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