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"Wanting to Die"

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don’t always die,
but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!—
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love whatever it was, an infection.
~ Anne Sexton


( 3 comments — Have your say! )
Marc D. Goldfinger
Jun. 16th, 2015 07:29 pm (UTC)
23 Fitzroy Road
For Sylvia Plath
On Fitzroy Road a shadow stands
at the window. Neighbors watch.

They think it is a woman they
know. Waiting for her true

love dressed in black costume.
Death comes dressed in colors,

a wool of night scrawled about
his neck. A noose. A muffler

to quiet a wife, a shadow, a stark
grimace. At the window a shadow

within shadow, within shadow, even
tempered. As light fades the shadow

stands longer, yet longer. The fingers
cold, wrapped in shawl, dead cold.

Ice on the glass. This shadow sees
its breath. From the underground

it comes, first the head, the neck
wrapped tight, eyes to match, deep

as cracked arctic snow. Flame
turned inwards. The neighbors

watch the shadow watch the man
come, then go. This will be the last

time. No one sees the shadow wrench
itself from the flesh, the breath stop.
No one stands at this window now.
The curtains drawn. Doors taped

shut, the oven open, folded cloth
a pillow. In another room, upstairs

an open window. The sound of children.
Winter sun. Cloaked mirrors. A book.

Thank you Caitlin. I know that your blue notes cheer others on besides yourself. I look forward to them.
Jun. 16th, 2015 07:46 pm (UTC)
Re: 23 Fitzroy Road

I'm not trying to cheer anyone on. I'm trying to let go.
Marc D. Goldfinger
Jun. 16th, 2015 07:57 pm (UTC)
Re: 23 Fitzroy Road
You have. Sorry about my mis-interpretation. I do look forward to your comments.
( 3 comments — Have your say! )