I have done it again.One year in every tenI manage it— A sort of walking miracle, my skinBright as a Nazi lampshade,My right foot A paperweight,My face a featureless, fineJew linen. Peel off the napkinO my enemy.Do I terrify?— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?The sour breathWill vanish in a day. Soon, soon the fleshThe grave cave ate will beAt 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 trashTo annihilate each decade. What a million filaments.The peanut-crunching crowdShoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot—The big strip tease.Gentlemen, ladies These are my handsMy 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 meantTo last it out and not come back at all.I rocked shut As a seashell.They had to call and callAnd pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. DyingIs 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 dayTo the same place, the same face, the same bruteAmused shout: ‘A miracle!’That knocks me out.There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a chargeFor the hearing of my heart—It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large chargeFor a word or a touchOr 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 LuciferBewareBeware. Out of the ashI rise with my red hairAnd I eat men like air. 23–29 October 1962