You, Doctor Martin, walk <br />from breakfast to madness. Late August, <br />I speed through the antiseptic tunnel <br />where the moving dead still talk <br />of pushing their bones against the thrust <br />of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel <br />or the laughing bee on a stalk <br /> <br />of death. We stand in broken <br />lines and wait while they unlock <br />the doors and count us at the frozen gates <br />of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken <br />and we move to gravy in our smock <br />of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates <br />scratch and whine like chalk <br /> <br />in school. There are no knives <br />for cutting your throat. I make <br />moccasins all morning. At first my hands <br />kept empty, unraveled for the lives <br />they used to work. Now I learn to take <br />them back, each angry finger that demands <br />I mend what another will break <br /> <br />tomorrow. Of course, I love you; <br />you lean above the plastic sky, <br />god of our block, prince of all the foxes. <br />The breaking crowns are new <br />that Jack wore. <br />Your third eye <br />moves among us and lights the separate boxes <br />where we sleep or cry. <br /> <br />What large children we are <br />here. All over I grow most tall <br />in the best ward. Your business is people, <br />you call at the madhouse, an oracular <br />eye in our nest. Out in the hall <br />the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull <br />of the foxy children who fall <br /> <br />like floods of life in frost. <br />And we are magic talking to itself, <br />noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins <br />forgotten. Am I still lost? <br />Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, <br />counting this row and that row of moccasins <br />waiting on the silent shelf.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/you-doctor-martin/
