You, Anne Sexton

You, Anne Sexton- Why are you here? Don't you know that my passion's run dry? I take in your craft like another addiction; I give you- poetess- a run through my veins. Yet it's all too often my image I see, my thoughts by your hand, heart nailed to your words. Why, Anne Sexton- on page 153- are you wearing my mother's image and name? You're astonishingly, achingly all too familiar; the titular mother's got nothing on you. And when I'm undone in my mind's dusty corner, Is that you- Anne Sexton- teetering posthumously on my windowsill?