Sylvia Plath: Song of Myself

The moon is my medicine.
See, I lick her spoon
Clean as a whistle.

My light simply dribbles
From the worn scrawn of her lips.

Dribble, dribble, drab.
My fingers scribble,
Scratching at her lunar surface.

There are no craters on me.
My face is smooth.
Smooth as moon-milk in a pitcher.

Currents worship me.
They lay cold surf like turf at my toes.

I am marble or alabaster.
And my dark side is very dark indeed,
Black as a lump of cut coal.

From the book Send-Up