April 18 by Sylvia Plath

the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull

and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation

I would not remember you

or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these

and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops

a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight

by Sylvia Plath

Other poems by 'Sylvia Plath'

Sow

The Moon And The Yew Tree

Last Words

The Thin People

Crossing The Water

By Candlelight

Winter Trees

Face Lift

The Bee Meeting

Medusa

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