a haunting poem by Anne Sexton
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...
a haunting poem by Anne Sexton
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 in like an iron gate And I turn to you and am bright and young.
My love, the wind falls in like stones From a white mountain and where we touch Were twice marked & twice alone. Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what would the dead say? What defiles their carmines and their loose brows? Not this. For through their tiny smiles they mutter: Live now. LIVE NOW!
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