When The Glass Of My Body Broke

Oh mother of sex,
lady of the staggering cuddle,
where do these hands come from?
A man, a Moby Dick of a man,
a swimmer going up and down in his brain,
the gentleness of wine in his fingertips,
where do these hands come from?
I was born a glass baby and nobody picked me up
except to wash the dust off me.
He has picked me up and licked me alive.

Hands
growing like ivy over me,
hands growing out of me like hair,
yet turning into fire grass,
planting an iris in my mouth,
spinning and blue,
the nipples turning into wings,
the lips turning into days that would not give birth,
days that would not hold us in their house,
days that would not wrap us in their secret lap,
and yet hands, hands growing out of pictures,
hands crawling out of walls,
hands that excite oblivion,
like a wind,
a strange wind
from somewhere tropic
making a storm between my blind legs,
letting me lift the mask of the child from my face,
while all the toy villages fall
and I sink softly into
the heartland.

-Anne Sexton

Love and pain; tenderness and violence – the neccessities of a life of texture.   I want my glass to shatter.  The shards cut but shimmer beautifully…the blood from my wounds is proof that I am alive.  How wonderful is this mingling of blood in the plush, blue night…

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~ by ngrblogadmin on January 11, 2010.

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