Anna Who Was Mad in  General   

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-old
into 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 psychiatrist
who 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 nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.

By Anne Sexton

Tell Your Friends About It | Print This Poem

Comments

You should be logged in to be able to leave comments

Other poems by Anne Sexton:

• A Curse Against Elegies
• A Story For Rose On The Midnight Flight To Boston
• Admonitions To A Special Person
• An Obsessive Combination Of Onotological Inscape,
• Angels Of The Love Affair
• Anna Who Was Mad
• As It Was Written
• Baby Picture
• Bat
• Buying The Whore
• Christmas Eve
• Cinderella