The end of the affair is always death. <br />She's my workshop. Slippery eye, <br />out of the tribe of myself my breath <br />finds you gone. I horrify <br />those who stand by. I am fed. <br />At night, alone, I marry the bed. <br />Finger to finger, now she's mine. <br />She's not too far. She's my encounter. <br />I beat her like a bell. I recline <br />in the bower where you used to mount her. <br />You borrowed me on the flowered spread. <br />At night, alone, I marry the bed. <br />Take for instance this night, my love, <br />that every single couple puts together <br />with a joint overturning, beneath, above, <br />the abundant two on sponge and feather, <br />kneeling and pushing, head to head. <br />At night, alone, I marry the bed. <br />I break out of my body this way, <br />an annoying miracle. Could I <br />put the dream market on display? <br />I am spread out. I crucify. <br />My little plum is what you said. <br />At night, alone, I marry the bed. <br />Then my black-eyed rival came. <br />The lady of water, rising on the beach, <br />a piano at her fingertips, shame <br />on her lips and a flute's speech. <br />And I was the knock-kneed broom instead. <br />At night, alone, I marry the bed. <br />She took you the way a women takes <br />a bargain dress off the rack <br />and I broke the way a stone breaks. <br />I give back your books and fishing tack. <br />Today's paper says that you are wed. <br />At night, alone, I marry the bed. <br />The boys and girls are one tonight. <br />They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. <br />They take off shoes. They turn off the light. <br />The glimmering creatures are full of lies. <br />They are eating each other. They are overfed. <br />At night, alone, I marry the bed.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ballad-of-the-lonely-masturbator/
