Sylvia Plath

The Munich Mannequins

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children. 
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb  

Where the yew trees blow like hydras, 
The tree of life and the tree of life 

Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose. 
The blood flood is the flood of love, 

The absolute sacrifice. 
It means: no more idols but me,
Me and you. 
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles 

These mannequins lean tonight 
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome, 

Naked and bald in their furs, 
Orange lollies on silver sticks, 

Intolerable, without mind. 
The snow drops its pieces of darkness, 

Nobody's about. In the hotels 
Hands will be opening doors and setting 

Down shoes for a polish of carbon 
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow. 

O the domesticity of these windows, 
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery, 

The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz. 
And the black phones on hooks 

Glittering and digesting 

Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.