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PRINTED IN MEMORY (HOMAGE TO ANNE SEXTON)
Private Notes
Private Notes
Notes
She came to me
mail-ordered, smelling
of old bookstores,
reminding me
of my dad’s house:
titles he’s boxed,
sacked, and left
me over the years.
Wondering where
she’d come from,
I glanced down
at the ripped return
address and the patch
of stitched-together stamps
licked by some stranger,
living in Connecticut,
who apparently could
no longer find use
for her anxieties,
could no longer
bring back to life
her old dwarf heart.
I looked through her
and propped her up
between Plath
and Millay.
Months later
I take her down;
she‘s limp and musty;
having had her fill
of the feminine,
she’s been consorting
with angels,
discussing trickery
and love.
I sometimes envy
the dead. They’ve
already done it. They
already know. They’ve
already suffered their
un-birth into mystery. They’ve
left the womb of this world,
entered the vagina-like coffin,
and, spread about the earth,
have become disquieting
muses, pensive ashes of life.
Oh the fury of beautiful bones.
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They’vealready suffered theirun-birth into mystery
What a beautiful way to say this. Please share more poetry!