Sylvia Plath

The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.

The fat

Sacrifices its opacity. . . .

A window， holy gold.

The fire makes it precious，

The same fire

Melting the tallow heretics，

Ousting the Jews.

Their thick palls float

Over the cicatrix of Poland， burnt-out

Germany.

They do not die.

Grey birds obsess my heart，

Mouth-ash， ash of eye.

They settle. On the high

Precipice

That emptied one man into space

The ovens glowed like heavens， incandescent.

It is a heart，

This holocaust I walk in，

O golden child the world will kill and eat.