For the angels who inhabit this town, <br />although their shape constantly changes, <br />each night we leave some cold potatoes <br />and a bowl of milk on the windowsill. <br />Usually they inhabit heaven where, <br />by the way, no tears are allowed. <br />They push the moon around like <br />a boiled yam. <br />The Milky Way is their hen <br />with her many children. <br />When it is night the cows lie down <br />but the moon, that big bull, <br />stands up. <br /> <br />However, there is a locked room up there <br />with an iron door that can't be opened. <br />It has all your bad dreams in it. <br />It is hell. <br />Some say the devil locks the door <br />from the inside. <br />Some say the angels lock it from the outside. <br />The people inside have no water <br />and are never allowed to touch. <br />They crack like macadam. <br />They are mute. <br />They do not cry help <br />except inside <br />where their hearts are covered with grubs. <br /> <br />I would like to unlock that door, <br />turn the rusty key <br />and hold each fallen one in my arms <br />but I cannot, I cannot. <br />I can only sit here on earth <br />at my place at the table.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/locked-doors/
