Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!
Get Your Premium Membership

In The Deep Museum

 My God, my God, what queer corner am I in? 
Didn't I die, blood running down the post, 
lungs gagging for air, die there for the sin 
of anyone, my sour mouth giving up the ghost? 
Surely my body is done? Surely I died? 
And yet, I know, I'm here.
What place is this? Cold and queer, I sting with life.
I lied.
Yes, I lied.
Or else in some damned cowardice my body would not give me up.
I touch fine cloth with my hand and my cheeks are cold.
If this is hell, then hell could not be much, neither as special or as ugly as I was told.
What's that I hear, snuffling and pawing its way toward me? Its tongue knocks a pebble out of place as it slides in, a sovereign.
How can I pray> It is panting; it is an odor with a face like the skin of a donkey.
It laps my sores.
It is hurt, I think, as a I touch its little head.
It bleeds.
I have forgiven murderers and whores and now must wait like old Jonah, not dead nor alive, stroking a clumsy animal.
A rat.
His teeth test me; he waits like a good cook, knowing his own ground.
I forgive him that, as I forgave my Judas the money he took.
Now I hold his soft red sore to my lips as his brothers crowd in, hairy angels who take my gift.
My ankles are a flute.
I lose hips and wrists.
For three days, for love's sake, I bless this other death.
Oh, not in air -- in dirt.
Under the rotting veins of its roots, under the markets, under the sheep bed where the hill is food, under the slippery fruits of the vineyard, I go.
Unto the bellies and jaws of rats I commit my prophecy and fear.
Far below The Cross, I correct its flaws.
We have kept the miracle.
I will not be here.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - In The Deep MuseumEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

Top Anne Sexton Poems

Analysis and Comments on In The Deep Museum

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem In The Deep Museum here.