For My Lover, Returning To His Wife

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.
vA luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission -
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound -
for the burying of her small red wound alive -
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call -
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

by Anne Sexton

Comments (20)

..............excellent write...and perfect for the season ★
Stevenson appears to be a man who prefers a lusty life of drinking, adventure, and laughter- - with some pirates thrown in for excitement- - and he has chosen the perfect phrase for his predilection- - - - - - - -Keep open, at the annual feast, The puppet-booth of fun.
Love in February! Everyone is talking about love in February! February is the month of St. Valentine's Day, Which is celebrated in memory of that saint, Who sacrificed his life for the union of lovers! Every religion preaches about love for best life! Love is selfless act of empathy for others feeling Not an easy job to practise in real life in the world! So, lovers are warned against pitfalls in real life. When this is so, who can practise love in the world? One who is strong, brave, capable of standing on One's own leg only can practise love to support the Beloved through thick and thin in life till the end...! Other romantic loiterers can only send gifts, greetings And spend happy time in celebrating St. Valentine Day!
Whoever gave this effortlessly brilliant poem a six, deserves heavy starch. It is almost too convincing in its call to abandon. But the rhyming is astonishingly casual and fresh. Roll over, Stevenson, the novelist. And 'the puppet-booth of fun' is a bully refrain, indeed. Many might not catch the sub-text, here, I fear.
The flow of this beautifully crafted story poem is superb.
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