Breaking it Off:
Letter from Anne Sexton
It is not enough
I have waited, a woman
with her knees bent to the dawn?
I slept with your promises, too,
welcomed them like I did
the slit of your eye on my back.
I celebrated with an empty nightgown
in a bed too big for two,
seclusion the gift of Lucky Strikes,
my vodka my booze.
Like a madman aflutter I nursed
nightmares in my arms,
rocked them to sleep, baby,
picked at their meaning
till my knuckles bled.
Your name hoarse in my throat,
I swallowed whole days
woven of hunches, hard-guessed
the rumors delivered in pieces.
God, you can be so cold.
When you needed oxygen,
I buried my lips
in your good right hand,
our habit of words never easy.
You covered my eyes
with your insistent kiss
and still I could see
I was losing you.
Tonight I get to watch
the pall of roses
failing at my window.
author of Neruda's Memoirs
This poem is offered as part of our May theme: Roses
All poems, art, and photos are public domain or used by permission of author or publisher. Photo by HaoJan, via Flickr. |
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