bir sylvia plath
i've got a stubborn goose whose gut's
honeycombed with golden eggs,
yet won't lay one.
she, addled in her goose-wit, struts
the barnyard like those taloned hags
who ogle men
and crimp their wrinkles in a grin,
jangling their great money bags.
while i eat grits
she fattens on the finest grain.
now, as i hone my knife, she begs
pardon, and that's
so humbly done, i'd turn this keen
steel on myself before profit
by such a rogue's
act, but --- how those feathers shine!
exit from a smoking slit
her ruby dregs.