“and the love, whatever it was, an infection.”
November 19, 2013 § Leave a comment
There is a kind of horrible beauty from which, I hope, some find reason & cause to endure the beautiful horror that living often is. It’s not always — or even normally — poetry. But, oh, sometimes it is . . .
“Wanting to Die”
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I do not think of my body at needle-point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don’t always die,
but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue! —
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death’s a sad bone; bruised you’d say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page for the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
— Anne Sexton (1928-1974)