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?
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