In This Fashion I Have Become a Tree
p
I said, “The devil is down that festering hole.”
Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myself to blame.
Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you
as old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton,
Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate.
p
Angel of clean sheets, do you know bedbugs?
Let me pick those sweet kisses. Thief that I was
I have become a vase you can pick up or drop at will.
Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen
of wire. Your voice is out there. Your voice is strange,
stay near. But give me the totem. Give me the shut eye,
p
that hole where the fire woman is tied to her chair.
Take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place.
Let me pick those sweet kisses. Thief that I was
my blood buzzes like a hornet’s nest. I sit in a kitchen chair—
a little solo act—that lady with the brain that broke.
p
Inanimate at last. What unusual luck! My body–
gull that grows out of my back in the dreams I prefer.
p
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Probably my least favorite of my three Anne Sexton centos. Has to be the mood I am in. Though it could be my method. This time I used one poem, “Angels of the Love Affair,” which is broken into 6 sections. Instead of choosing lines, writing them on a separate piece of paper, then constructing the poem, I typed lines directly onto the computer, composing as I went. This method didn’t give me as much time to sit with the lines or play with them. Still…I blame it on the mood.
jillypoet 