Ruthie Foster is simply phenomenal.

All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world:

Favored (while suddenly the rains begin

Beyond the window) she lies on cushions curled

And nibbles an occasional bonbon of sin.

Prim, pink-breasted, feminine, she nurses

Chocolate fancies in rose-papered rooms

Where polished higboys whisper creaking curses

And hothouse roses shed immortal blooms.

The garnets on her fingers twinkle quick

And blood reflects across the manuscript;

She muses on the odor, sweet and sick,

Of festering gardenias in a crypt,

And lost in subtle metaphor, retreats

From gray child faces crying in the streets

Taken from: http://www.angelfire.com/tn/plath/female.html

(I doubt if the typos are Plath’s … but I’ve left them just in case.)