bir
sylvia plath şiiri.
compelled by calamity's magnet
they loiter and stare as if the house
burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought
some scandal might any minute ooze
from a smoke-choked closet into light;
no deaths, no prodigious injuries
glut these hunters after an old meat,
blood-spoor of the austere tragedies.
mother medea in a green smock
moves humbly as any housewife through
her ruined apartments, taking stock
of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery:
cheated of the pyre and the rack,
the crowd sucks her last tear and turns away.
