undressing Anne Sexton
we meet on the forgotten beach,
you armed with your kill me pills,
and I your book of rhymes.
a rowboat idles at the shore,
as tiny as a child's toy,
or a socialite's poodle.
you wear white, like Dickinson,
but not to proclaim chastity, for
the dress has no sleeves,
and reaches your knees,
and perched between
two thin fingers, like a great
conductor's wand, a cigarette
glows in the harsh, dusky light,
waning like a gas lamp,
above the remote sands.
idiosyncratic metaphors
fall from your lips
like sweet faux pas,
as you stumble
near to me, a flightless robin,
your breath a gin
distillery, and when I touch
your ribs you flinch.
I grasp the shoulder straps,
you raise your arms,
the dress collapses
at your feet, like a peasant
girl. I see the bruises,
sheer black welts,
from when you dived
beneath his cart,
and barely screamed
as your bones broke.
always in love with Death,
the one man who played
hard to get, would not be
wooed those early years,
but offered you his hand
that day inside the garage
of the gas.
I envy your relationship.
you stand in your undergarments, cold,
I lay you on the yellow grains,
remove your cigarette, and flick it near
the shushing tide. like an audience filling
each bare theatre seat, the stars emerge
through their veil of black, and I undo
your soft white bra, spread your thighs
to reach your knickers, pure white lace,
not gossamer, but seductive
nonetheless.
I've discovered you so many times,
naked as a monk's conscience;
you're my mother, my mistress,
my incestuous dear,
my teacher of death
and of love and of fear.
Jack Heslop has been writing poetry since he was fifteen. As someone who suffers from depression, he is always trying to order his life so he can live it properly. Poetry, in a way, is another technique for doing that.
we meet on the forgotten beach,
you armed with your kill me pills,
and I your book of rhymes.
a rowboat idles at the shore,
as tiny as a child's toy,
or a socialite's poodle.
you wear white, like Dickinson,
but not to proclaim chastity, for
the dress has no sleeves,
and reaches your knees,
and perched between
two thin fingers, like a great
conductor's wand, a cigarette
glows in the harsh, dusky light,
waning like a gas lamp,
above the remote sands.
idiosyncratic metaphors
fall from your lips
like sweet faux pas,
as you stumble
near to me, a flightless robin,
your breath a gin
distillery, and when I touch
your ribs you flinch.
I grasp the shoulder straps,
you raise your arms,
the dress collapses
at your feet, like a peasant
girl. I see the bruises,
sheer black welts,
from when you dived
beneath his cart,
and barely screamed
as your bones broke.
always in love with Death,
the one man who played
hard to get, would not be
wooed those early years,
but offered you his hand
that day inside the garage
of the gas.
I envy your relationship.
you stand in your undergarments, cold,
I lay you on the yellow grains,
remove your cigarette, and flick it near
the shushing tide. like an audience filling
each bare theatre seat, the stars emerge
through their veil of black, and I undo
your soft white bra, spread your thighs
to reach your knickers, pure white lace,
not gossamer, but seductive
nonetheless.
I've discovered you so many times,
naked as a monk's conscience;
you're my mother, my mistress,
my incestuous dear,
my teacher of death
and of love and of fear.
Jack Heslop has been writing poetry since he was fifteen. As someone who suffers from depression, he is always trying to order his life so he can live it properly. Poetry, in a way, is another technique for doing that.
