A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
(Anne Sexton)
More Poetry from Anne Sexton:
Anne Sexton Poems based on Topics: Man, Love, Nature, Children, War & Peace, Confession- Hurry Up Please It's Time (Anne Sexton Poems)
- Red Riding Hood (Anne Sexton Poems)
- Angels Of The Love Affair (Anne Sexton Poems)
- Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (Anne Sexton Poems)
- Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty) (Anne Sexton Poems)
- The Death Baby (Anne Sexton Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, Nature Poems, War & Peace Poems, Children Poems, Confession PoemsBased on Keywords: products, portents, gossips, trances, vegetables, galleons, cycles, essentially, congresses, erections