The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odours bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
This is Plath’s last written poem, therefore it is easy to describe it as a poem that is only about suicide. The poem takes a strange and sinister turn with the imagery of dead children. These children, not only dead but also described as serpents, are seemingly dismissed at the end of the poem, “She is used to this sort of thing.” These disturbing depictions, which do not reflect at all Plath’s views or intentions towards her own children, call into question the premise of the poem and open it up to other interpretations.
