Posts Tagged Anne Sexton
There are two quite long stop lights on the way back home.
I feel victorious when they are red.
My spaces, not for staring, not for judging others,
but for spiritual transition
out of the deep graves of humankind’s laws.
My right arm with torn muscle
reaches for The Complete Anne Sexton.
She is sparked by the alert.
Passenger side air bag isn’t on.
I crawl under a mighty Northeastern Oak tree.
Anne holds my hand and her eyes tell me I’m good.
It’s my transition.
I want Anne to hold my hand forever.
But the light will change.
Hundreds of wicked symbols will shock me
back to hate. Back to detesting who I am
and how I see the messy chaos of unmixed disgust.
Anne sits back into the tan plush, lacking her air bag.
I hope Anne has left a drop of life in me from the transition.
I hope there might be life left in me when I get back home.
Bright pancakes smashed my eyes as the sun landed on my windshield. I told the truth at that moment, and either the world didn’t like me for this pitiful exercise or the world was thrilled by my surrender and was sending me away. Bubbles of froth gurgled up from the turtle who was in my passenger seat on top of my book of poems by Anne Sexton. The turtle was showing me how to do it: Just cry and let all of the air bubble up all the shit trapped in my heart for seemingly no reason, directly up the wind pipe and choke over it emphatically.
He told me to walk. He read about another guy who walked. One day it was ten steps and maybe the next it was fourteen. Today I could walk and just breathe. Just breathe. He told me to smile and tell him something. I smiled and laughed, but I couldn’t say anything. I looked at a dark window that would not show me a reflection of my body. I felt like a bowl of clam chowder, but I laughed again.
Mark was looking thoughtful, crooked neck with green eyes zooming in on sky, leaning left, right, left in the middle of a gravel parking lot. He has a way of consistently looking pensive. He often scrubs his chin with extended fingers and looks to the sky for all of the answers. Mark is sober, but his son isn’t.
There was a lady walking in the alleyway. She appeared to be intent on selling her ass so that she could acquire her next round of heroin. She scared me, but she’s probably nice. Where would she be if she was not doing what she’s doing?
I felt compelled to get in my Ford, head for home, eyeballs looking steadily at the tremendous inner tubes attached all around the car, wanting to dive back into Anne Sexton’s experience, her complete poems, in my sleek and slightly dark den. Anne talks to me about all of the dangers, and she survived so many of them. She helps me think of surviving danger by putting it on paper, away from the soul.