Poem by Sylvia Plath

Words Heard, by Accident, over the Phone

O mud, mud, how fluid! —-
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.

What are these words, these words?
They are plopping like mud.
O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?
They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, 
                       they are looking for a listener.
Is he here?

Now the room is ahiss. The instrument
Withdraws its tentacle.
But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile.
Muck funnel, muck funnel —
You are too big. They must take you back!

1. The Disquieting Muses
2. Words for a Nursery
3. Sleep in the Mojave Desert
4. Gold Mouths Cry
5. All the Dead Dears

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