She takes me in, deep in, till I’m exiled,
Then pricks my ankles with small bats and owls;
The moon’s my mother. She grows bald and wild,
Turning us through our blue night’s long-beguiled
dark-needing light. Though every steeple scowls,
That door is open. I will be her child;
Which is our face? Was it ours till we smiled?
(Eight great tongues find a ninth that sprouts and prowls).
The moon’s my mother; she grows bald and wild
Singing the touch that’s still unreconciled,
Spinning out the inheritance of growls.
That door is open. I will be her child

And line each nest our pain has not defiled
With grass unloading griefs, or Gods, till it howls;
The moon’s my mother. She grows bald and wild
As Mary was, before they made her “mild.”
Gather our draping hoods, our snoods, our cowls!
The moon’s my mother. She grows bald and wild.
That door is open. I will be her child;

First published in Plath Studies.