Paralytic Sylvia Plath

It happens. Will it go on? ---- 
My mind a rock, 
No fingers to grip, no tongue, 
My god the iron lung 

That loves me, pumps 
My two 
Dust bags in and out, 
Will not 

Let me relapse 
While the day outside glides by like ticker tape. 
The night brings violets, 
Tapestries of eyes, 

Lights, 
The soft anonymous 
Talkers: 'You all right?' 
The starched, inaccessible breast. 

Dead egg, I lie 
Whole 
On a whole world I cannot touch, 
At the white, tight 

Drum of my sleeping couch 
Photographs visit me- 
My wife, dead and flat, in 1920 furs, 
Mouth full of pearls, 

Two girls 
As flat as she, who whisper 'We're your daughters.' 
The still waters 
Wrap my lips, 

Eyes, nose and ears, 
A clear 
Cellophane I cannot crack. 
On my bare back 

I smile, a buddha, all 
Wants, desire 
Falling from me like rings 
Hugging their lights. 

The claw 
Of the magnolia, 
Drunk on its own scents, 
Asks nothing of life.