Anna who was mad
Anna who was mad, I have a knife in my armpit.When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.Am I some sort of infection? Did I make you go insane? Did I make the sounds go sour? Did I tell you to climb out the window? Forgive. Forgive.Say not I did.Say not.Say.Speak Mary-words into our pillow.Take me the gangling twelve-year-oldinto your sunken lap.Whisper like a buttercup.Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.Take me in.Take me.Take.Give me a report on the condition of my soul.Give me a complete statement of my actions.Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.Did I make you go insane? Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through? Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatristwho dragged you out like a gold cart? Did I make you go insane? From the grave write me, Anna! You are nothing but ashes but neverthelesspick up the Parker Pen I gave you.Write me.Write.
Anne Sexton
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