It's in the heart of the grape <br />where that smile lies. <br />It's in the good-bye-bow in the hair <br />where that smile lies. <br />It's in the clerical collar of the dress <br />where that smile lies. <br />What smile? <br />The smile of my seventh year, <br />caught here in the painted photograph. <br /> <br />It's peeling now, age has got it, <br />a kind of cancer of the background <br />and also in the assorted features. <br />It's like a rotten flag <br />or a vegetable from the refrigerator, <br />pocked with mold. <br />I am aging without sound, <br />into darkness, darkness. <br /> <br />Anne, <br />who are you? <br /> <br />I open the vein <br />and my blood rings like roller skates. <br />I open the mouth <br />and my teeth are an angry army. <br />I open the eyes <br />and they go sick like dogs <br />with what they have seen. <br />I open the hair <br />and it falls apart like dust balls. <br />I open the dress <br />and I see a child bent on a toilet seat. <br />I crouch there, sitting dumbly <br />pushing the enemas out like ice cream, <br />letting the whole brown world <br />turn into sweets. <br /> <br />Anne, <br />who are you? <br /> <br />Merely a kid keeping alive.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/baby-picture/
