This singing <br />is a kind of dying, <br />a kind of birth, <br />a votive candle. <br />I have a dream-mother <br />who sings with her guitar, <br />nursing the bedroom <br />with a moonlight and beautiful olives. <br />A flute came too, <br />joining the five strings, <br />a God finger over the holes. <br />I knew a beautiful woman once <br />who sang with her fingertips <br />and her eyes were brown <br />like small birds. <br />At the cup of her breasts <br />I drew wine. <br />At the mound of her legs <br />I drew figs. <br />She sang for my thirst, <br />mysterious songs of God <br />that would have laid an army down. <br />It was as if a morning-glory <br />had bloomed in her throat <br />and all that blue <br />and small pollen <br />ate into my heart <br />violent and religious.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fury-of-guitars-and-sopranos/
