Death & Co. by Sylvia Plath

Two.Of Course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now⎯
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled, like Blake's,
Who exhibits

The Birthmarks that are his trademark⎯
The scald scar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of the condor
I am red meat. His beak

Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple

Frill at the neck,
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns,
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.

The other does that,
His hair long and plausive.
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter,
He wants to be loved.

I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star.
The dead bell,
The dead bell.

Somebody's done for.