And I solemnly swear <br />on the chill of secrecy <br />that I know you not, this room never, <br />the swollen dress I wear, <br />nor the anonymous spoons that free me, <br />nor this calendar nor the pulse we pare and cover. <br /> <br />For all these present, <br />before that wandering ghost, <br />that yellow moth of my summer bed, <br />I say: this small event <br />is not. So I prepare, am dosed <br />in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid. <br /> <br />I was brown with August, <br />the clapping waves at my thighs <br />and a storm riding into the cove. We swam <br />while the others beached and burst <br />for their boarded huts, their hale cries <br />shouting back to us and the hollow slam <br />of the dory against the float. <br />Black arms of thunder strapped <br />upon us, squalled out, we breathed in rain <br />and stroked past the boat. <br />We thrashed for shore as if we were trapped <br />in green and that suddenly inadequate stain <br /> <br />of lightning belling around <br />our skin. Bodies in air <br />we raced for the empty lobsterman-shack. <br />It was yellow inside, the sound <br />of the underwing of the sun. I swear, <br />I most solemnly swear, on all the bric-a-brac <br /> <br />of summer loves, I know <br />you not.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-exorcists/
