Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. <br />I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. <br />Then the almost unnameable lust returns. <br /> <br />Even then I have nothing against life. <br />I know well the grass blades you mention, <br />the furniture you have placed under the sun. <br /> <br />But suicides have a special language. <br />Like carpenters they want to know which tools. <br />They never ask why build. <br /> <br />Twice I have so simply declared myself, <br />have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, <br />have taken on his craft, his magic. <br /> <br />In this way, heavy and thoughtful, <br />warmer than oil or water, <br />I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. <br /> <br />I did not think of my body at needle point. <br />Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. <br />Suicides have already betrayed the body. <br /> <br />Still-born, they don't always die, <br />but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet <br />that even children would look on and smile. <br /> <br />To thrust all that life under your tongue!- <br />that, all by itself, becomes a passion. <br />Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say, <br /> <br />and yet she waits for me, year after year, <br />to so delicately undo an old wound, <br />to empty my breath from its bad prison. <br /> <br />Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, <br />raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon, <br />leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, <br /> <br />leaving the page of the book carelessly open, <br />something unsaid, the phone off the hook <br />and the love, whatever it was, an infection.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wanting-to-die-3/
