Anna Who Was Mad

 Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.

When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.

Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive.
 Forgive.

Say not I did.

Say not.

Say.


Speak Mary-words into our pillow.

Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.

Whisper like a buttercup.

Eat me.
 Eat me up like cream pudding.

Take me in.

Take me.

Take.


Give me a report on the condition of my soul.

Give me a complete statement of my actions.

Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.

Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.

Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.

Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.

Write me.

Write.

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