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“Cut”

 

by Sylvia Plath, October 24, 1962

   
 

for Susan O’Neill Roe

   
   
  What a thrill—
  My thumb instead of an onion.
  The top quite gone
  Except for a sort of hinge
   
5 Of skin,
  A flap like a hat,
  Dead white.
  Then that red plush.
   
  Little pilgrim,
10 The Indian's axed your scalp.
  Your turkey wattle
  Carpet rolls
   
  Straight from the heart.
  I step on it,
15 Clutching my bottle
  Of pink fizz.
 

 

  A celebration, this is.
  Out of a gap
  A million soldiers run,
20 Redcoats, every one.
   
  Whose side are they on?
  O my
  Homunculus, I am ill.
  I have taken a pill to kill
   
25 The thin
  Papery feeling.
  Saboteur,
  Kamikaze man—
   
  The stain on your
30 Gauze Ku Klux Klan
  Babushka
  Darkens and tarnishes and when
   
  The balled
  Pulp of your heart
35 Confronts its small
  Mill of silence
   
  How you jump—
  Trepanned veteran,
  Dirty girl,
40 Thumb stump.