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.