Anne Sexton 1928-1974
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings i like an iron gate
and we touch.. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the white-hearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knuckle bone.
Read About Anne Sexton
Personal Note: Anne Sexton is so Plath-like with her writing. The sadness in her life mirrors Plaths too.
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