Sleeping in fever, I am unfair
to know just who you are:
hung up like a pig on exhibit,
the delicate wrists,
the beard drooling blood and vinegar;
hooked to your own weight,
jolting toward death under your nameplate.
 
Everyone in this crowd needs a bath.
I am dressed in rags.
The mother wears blue.
You grind your teeth
and with each new breath
your jaws gape and your diaper sags.
I am not to blame
for all this. I do not know your name.
 
Skinny man, you are somebody’s fault.
You ride on dark poles —
a wooden bird that a trader built
for some fool who felt
that he could make the flight. Now you roll
in your sleep, seasick
on your own breathing, poor old convict.

  • 0
  • 0
  •  
  •  
Login to comment...
Email

Other works by Anne Sexton...

Some poets who follow Anne Sexton...

Lxnnnie Rutledzh Mia Marie Lila Jane Maria Pia Dell'Omo Andrew J. Thomas Rita Khin