Lady Lazarus

　　 by Sylvia Plath

　　 I have done it again.

　　 One year in every ten

　　 I manage it--

　　 A sort of walking miracle， my skin

　　 Bright as a Nazi lampshade，

　　 My right foot

　　 A paperweight，

　　 My face a featureless， fine

　　 Jew linen.

　　 Peel off the napkin

　　 O my enemy.

　　 Do I terrify？--

　　 The nose， the eye pits， the full set of teeth？

　　 The sour breath

　　 Will vanish in a day.

　　 Soon， soon the flesh

　　 The grave cave ate will be

　　 At home on me

　　 And I a smiling woman.

　　 I am only thirty.

　　 And like the cat I have nine times to die.

　　 This is Number Three.

　　 What a trash

　　 To annihilate each decade.

　　 What a million filaments.

　　 The peanut-crunching crowd

　　 Shoves in to see

　　 Them unwrap me hand and foot--

　　 The big strip tease.

　　 Gentlemen， ladies

　　 These are my hands

　　 My knees.

　　 I may be skin and bone，

　　 Nevertheless， I am the same， identical woman.

　　 The first time it happened I was ten.

　　 It was an accident.

　　 The second time I meant

　　 To last it out and not come back at all.

　　 I rocked shut As a seashell.

　　 They had to call and call

　　 And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

　　 Dying Is an art， like everything else.

　　 I do it exceptionally well.

　　 I do it so it feels like hell.

　　 I do it so it feels real.

　　 I guess you could say I've a call.

　　 It's easy enough to do it in a cell.

　　 It's easy enough to do it and stay put.

　　 It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place， the same face， the same brute Amused shout：

　　 'A miracle！' That knocks me out.

　　 There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars， there is a charge For the hearing of my heart It really goes.

　　 And there is a charge， a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

　　 So， so， Herr Doktor.

　　 So， Herr Enemy.

　　 I am your opus，

　　 I am your valuable，

　　 The pure gold baby

　　 That melts to a shriek.

　　 I turn and burn.

　　 Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

　　 Ash， ash You poke and stir.

　　 Flesh， bone， there is nothing there

　　 A cake of soap，

　　 A wedding ring，

　　 A gold filling.

　　 Herr God， Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.

　　 Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air

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