10 November 2010

Write me. Write.

Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.

Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.

I love Anne Sexton. And then I find that she had an aunt named Anna
who went mad.
She thought of Anna as a mother. She watched her
slowly go mad.
A knife in the armpit.


Ma said...

Now, Anna, are you telling us something here? I like the shape of the poem.

Frances said...

I love this X

Ma said...

Have just read some of your new poems and think you should post them on your blog - really.