a found poem: The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
A sharp gesture from time and the premonitory
ache of little children
in the angry house that is your body
will quiet
and you will feel a horrible independence
enfold you—
one cramped and prickling
and embarrassed.
A great gangrenous weight will sit
sobbing on your shoulders
and all your particular pent up desires will go
to sleep—they cannot live.
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