Words for a Nursery Rosebud, knot of worms, Heir of the first five Shapers, I open: Five moony crescents For eyes to light me Toward what I can grab, Milk-spout, big finger So many ladders Giving a leg up To these limber hooks. I learn, good circus Dog that I am, how To move, serve, steer food, Index the arrow, Thumbhead, blunt helper, My master's fetcher, Whipper of itches, No pocket dozer, I shut on the key Of this blue-green toy. Five-antlered, branching Touchy antenna, I nose out the lay Of thistle and silk, Cold pole and hot plate. Old historian, My page this desert Crossed by three causeways, Leathery, treeless, With five whorled landspits. Brown-backed, white-bellied As a flatfish, I Swim the Sea of Do, The left my lackey, My backward image. Penbearer, scrubnurse, The captain's batman, By heart here I hold Coin, button, trigger And his love's body. Ill-served he'll be when Age manhandles me (A crab to nap on Chairarms and tables, Five wickless candles To wag at the dark) And worse-served when death Makes off with this rose, Five worms in a box To feed the thin crows. --Sylvia Plath --

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