Anne Sexton
There is an old library
With thousands of books
Big books, little books,
Happy books, sad books
Books with pictures,
Books with words,
On some nights
Tiny black words
Call their authors
They sing, they laugh,
They whisper or twitter
Anne's books cry
They call her and ask
Did we make you go insane
Did we make you be honest
Did we make you be brave
Number our sins. Number.
Did we order you to
Put on your mother's old fur coat,
To lock yourself in the garage
And start the engine of your car
Did we tell you to poison yourself
From the grave write to us, Anne,
Write to us. Write.
Forgive us. Forgive.
Say we didn't.
Say.
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