Tale Of A Tub by Slyvia Plath

            
            The photographic chamber of the eye 
          
            records bare painted walls, while an electric light 
          
            flays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw; 
          
            such poverty assaults the ego; caught 
          
            naked in the merely actual room, 
          
            the stranger in the lavatory mirror 
          
            puts on a public grin, repeats our name 
          
            but scrupulously reflects the usual terror. 


            Just how guilty are we when the ceiling 
          
            reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl 
          
            maintains it has no more holy calling 
          
            than physical ablution, and the towel 
          
            dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk

          
            The photographic chamber of the eye 
          
            records bare painted walls, while an electric light 
          
            flays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw; 
          
            such poverty assaults the ego; caught 
          
            naked in the merely actual room, 
          
            the stranger in the lavatory mirror 
          
            puts on a public grin, repeats our name 
          
            but scrupulously reflects the usual terror. 
          
            
            Just how guilty are we when the ceiling 
            
            reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl 
            
            maintains it has no more holy calling 
            
            than physical ablution, and the towel 
            
            dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk

            
            ever blur the intransigent lines which draw 
            
            the shape that shuts us in? absolute fact 
            
            intrudes even when the revolted eye 
            
            is closed; the tub exists behind our back: 
            
            its glittering surfaces are blank and true. 
            
            
            Yet always the ridiculous nude flanks urge 
            
            the fabrication of some cloth to cover 
            
            such starkness; accuracy must not stalk at large: 
            
            each day demands we create our whole world over, 
            
            disguising the constant horror in a coat 
            
            of many-colored fictions; we mask our past 
            
            in the green of eden, pretend future’s shining fruit 
            
            can sprout from the navel of this present waste. 
            

            In this particular tub, two knees jut up 
            
            like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise 
            
            on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap 
            
            navigates the tidal slosh of seas 
            
            breaking on legendary beaches; in faith 
            
            we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail 
            
            among sacred islands of the mad till death 
            
            shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.