As I previously mentioned, I struggle with reading Plath since I have such a hard time separating her life from her art. Regardless, this is one of the few poems I have always liked as it "reflects" the struggles of so many women with self-image and the passage of time as the voice of the poem is a mirror, talking about the woman who stares into her every day.
I am silver and exact.
I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles.
I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart.
But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake.
A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her.
She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl,
and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day,
like a terrible fish.