Oh, to be Assia.
The death-camp perfume,
the skin as marble-perfect
as the tombs of Zion.

Assia's not the ugly American,
the yellow hair. Not the woman of the vulgar
ambitions, poems going sour in her mouth,
growing hausfrau fat from the birthings,
braids looped in a silly crown on her head.

Instead, she's the woman who will
steal my husband, steal my life.
Then, tiring, at last, of those,
she'll finally steal my death.

Oh, to be Assia, but
Assia wanted to be me.

08/07/2005

Author's Note: Written as Sylvia Plath.

Posted on 08/07/2005
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