Mother, Mother
What ill bread aunt,
What disfigured and unsightly cousin
did you so unwisely keep,
and ask to my christening,
that she sent these ladies in her stead?
With heads like dawning apes,
to nod, and nod, and nod
at foot and head
and at the left side of my crib
Mother who made to order stories
of mixy black short,
the heroic bear

Mother who's witches always,
always got baked into gingerbead.
I wonder whether you saw them?
Whether you said
words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed?
mouthless, eyeless,
with stitched bald heads.

In the hurricane
when father's twelve study windows bellowed in
like bubbles about to break
You fed my brother and me cookies
and Oveltine
Helped the two of us to quiet.

Thor is angery
Boom, Boom, Boom
Thor is angery
we don't care

But those ladies broke the panes

The Disquieting Muses,  Sylvia Plath