Wednesday 20 March 2013

The Applicant, by Sylvia Plath



                                             First, are you our sort of a person?
                                             Do you wear
                                             A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
                                             A brace or a hook,
                                             Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,


                                             Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
                                             How can we give you a thing?
                                             Stop crying.
                                             Open your hand.
                                             Empty? Empty. Here is a hand


                                             To fill it and willing
                                             To bring teacups and roll away headaches
                                             And do whatever you tell it.
                                             Will you marry it?
                                             It is guaranteed


                                              To thumb shut your eyes at the end
                                              And dissolve of sorrow.
                                              We make new stock from the salt.
                                              I notice you are stark naked
                                              How about this suit -


                                              Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
                                              Will you marry it?
                                              It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
                                              Against fire and bombs through the roof.
                                              Believe me, they'll bury you in it.


                                              Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
                                              I have the ticket for that.
                                              Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
                                              Well, what do you think of that?
                                              Naked as paper to start


                                              But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
                                              In fifty, gold.
                                              A living doll, everywhere you look.
                                              It can sew, it can cook,
                                              It can talk, talk, talk.


                                              It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
                                              You have a hole, it's a poultice.
                                              You have an eye, it's an image.
                                              My boy, it's your last resort.
                                              Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.



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