Blue Moles

by Sylvia Plath

1 They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two Moles dead in the pebbled rut, Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart --- Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed. One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough, Little victim unearthed by some large creature From his orbit under the elm root. The second carcass makes a duel of the affair: Blind twins bitten by bad nature. The sky's far dome is sane a clear. Leaves, undoing their yellow caves Between the road and the lake water, Bare no sinister spaces. Already The moles look neutral as the stones. Their corkscrew noses, their white hands Uplifted, stiffen in a family pose. Difficult to imagine how fury struck --- Dissolved now, smoke of an old war. 2 Nightly the battle-snouts start up In the ear of the veteran, and again I enter the soft pelt of the mole. Light's death to them: they shrivel in it. They move through their mute rooms while I sleep, Palming the earth aside, grubbers After the fat children of root and rock. By day, only the topsoil heaves. Down there one is alone. Outsize hands prepare a path, They go before: opening the veins, Delving for the appendages Of beetles, sweetbreads, shards -- to be eaten Over and over. And still the heaven Of final surfeit is just as far From the door as ever. What happens between us Happens in darkness, vanishes Easy and often as each breath.