Childless Woman Sylvia Plath

The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,

Myself the rose you achieve -
This body,
This ivory,

Ungodly as a child's shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,

Uttering nothing but blood,
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest

My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.