Sylvia Plath

I Want, I Want

Open-mouthed, the baby god Immense, bald, though baby-headed, Cried out for the mother's dug. The dry volcanoes cracked and split, Sand abraded the milkless lip. Cried then for the father's blood Who set wasp, wolf and shark to work, Engineered the gannet's beak. Dry-eyed, the inveterate patriarch Raised his men of skin and bone, Barbs on the crown of gilded wire, Thorns on the bloody rose-stem.