PRINTED IN MEMORY (HOMAGE TO ANNE SEXTON)

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Submitted Date 10/26/2018
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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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