Sculpting Anne Sexton

Your tongue forced like clothes pins wetting cinnamon lips, gnawing at the barrier of one another. Sketching, Sketching, Hands shaping you, catching you drawn paper filed with the note no one left, a skilled architect, slowly tracing across your torso. Dog- earring the pages of your book, inner knowledge; pages written with pearl droplets of silk incandescent from moon colored sweat. Fusing pressed ribs together firm as tuning forks, asthmatic breath paining the wind rushing through your chest; sobbing in, sobbing out. Sheets twisting each other in quicksand your brail fingers finding my spine racing down my back like a fire pole. A sculptor arching your neck, pausing amethyst eyes impatient like pedestrian traffic hurried to find nowhere Stamping, Stamping. My hand planted in the small of your back a careful caretaker stripped to the bone, keeping us pinned together carelessly inside out, upside down