Sylvia Plath, April 18 / Βασίλης Πολύζος, Twilight

April 18

To D.R., who used to recite it
in memoriam

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

April 18, a poem by Sylvia Plath
Twilight, μια ζωγραφιά του Βασίλη Πολύζου