and before the crack of a tissue clutched by a forceps.the ivory glow divulged portable chunks of mist, sliding within the clear pond.I tend to think it’s in Plath’spoem the hospital is closest to heaven. the snowy hand wets his pharynx. buried deep in the moon, my lover rose cleaner than cotton.a common edition of … Continue reading In Plath’s Poem, the Hospital is Closest to Heaven