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Description

    I have done it again.

    One year in every ten

    I manage it——



    A sort of walking miracle, my skin

    Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

    My right foot



    A paperweight,

    My face a featureless, fine

    Jew linen.



    Peel off the napkin

    O my enemy.

    Do I terrify?——



    The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

    The sour breath

    Will vanish in a day.



    Soon, soon the flesh

    The grave cave ate will be

    At home on me



    And I a smiling woman.

    I am only thirty.

    And like the cat I have nine times to die.



    This is Number Three.

    What a trash

    To annihilate each decade.



    What a million filaments.

    The peanut-crunching crowd

    Shoves in to see



    Them unwrap me hand and foot——

    The big strip tease.

    Gentlemen, ladies



    These are my hands

    My knees.

    I may be skin and bone,



    Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

    The first time it happened I was ten.

    It was an accident.



    The second time I meant

    To last it out and not come back at all.

    I rocked shut



    As a seashell.

    They had to call and call

    And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.



    Dying

    Is an art, like everything else.

    I do it exceptionally well.



    I do it so it feels like hell.

    I do it so it feels real.

    I guess you could say I’ve a call.



    It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

    It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.

    It’s the theatrical



    Comeback in broad day

    To the same place, the same face, the same brute

    Amused shout:



    ‘A miracle!’

    That knocks me out.

    There is a charge



    For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

    For the hearing of my heart——

    It really goes.



    And there is a charge, a very large charge

    For a word or a touch

    Or a bit of blood



    Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

    So, so, Herr Doktor.

    So, Herr Enemy.



    I am your opus,

    I am your valuable,

    The pure gold baby



    That melts to a shriek.

    I turn and burn.

    Do not think I underestimate your great concern.



    Ash, ash—

    You poke and stir.

    Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——



    A cake of soap,

    A wedding ring,

    A gold filling.



    Herr God, Herr Lucifer

    Beware

    Beware.



    Out of the ash

    I rise with my red hair

    And I eat men like air.

Description

    I have done it again.

    One year in every ten

    I manage it——



    A sort of walking miracle, my skin

    Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

    My right foot



    A paperweight,

    My face a featureless, fine

    Jew linen.



    Peel off the napkin

    O my enemy.

    Do I terrify?——



    The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

    The sour breath

    Will vanish in a day.



    Soon, soon the flesh

    The grave cave ate will be

    At home on me



    And I a smiling woman.

    I am only thirty.

    And like the cat I have nine times to die.



    This is Number Three.

    What a trash

    To annihilate each decade.



    What a million filaments.

    The peanut-crunching crowd

    Shoves in to see



    Them unwrap me hand and foot——

    The big strip tease.

    Gentlemen, ladies



    These are my hands

    My knees.

    I may be skin and bone,



    Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

    The first time it happened I was ten.

    It was an accident.



    The second time I meant

    To last it out and not come back at all.

    I rocked shut



    As a seashell.

    They had to call and call

    And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.



    Dying

    Is an art, like everything else.

    I do it exceptionally well.



    I do it so it feels like hell.

    I do it so it feels real.

    I guess you could say I’ve a call.



    It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

    It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.

    It’s the theatrical



    Comeback in broad day

    To the same place, the same face, the same brute

    Amused shout:



    ‘A miracle!’

    That knocks me out.

    There is a charge



    For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

    For the hearing of my heart——

    It really goes.



    And there is a charge, a very large charge

    For a word or a touch

    Or a bit of blood



    Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

    So, so, Herr Doktor.

    So, Herr Enemy.



    I am your opus,

    I am your valuable,

    The pure gold baby



    That melts to a shriek.

    I turn and burn.

    Do not think I underestimate your great concern.



    Ash, ash—

    You poke and stir.

    Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——



    A cake of soap,

    A wedding ring,

    A gold filling.



    Herr God, Herr Lucifer

    Beware

    Beware.



    Out of the ash

    I rise with my red hair

    And I eat men like air.