Come friend, <br />I have an old story to tell you— <br /> <br />Listen. <br />Sit down beside me and listen. <br />My face is red with sorrow <br />and my breasts are made of straw. <br />I sit in the ladder-back chair <br />in a corner of the polished stage. <br />I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. <br />A new one comes on with the same lines, <br />like large white growths, in his mouth. <br />The dancers come on from the wings, <br />perfectly mated. <br /> <br />I look up. The ceiling is pearly. <br />My thighs press, knotting in their treasure. <br />Upstage the bride falls in satin to the floor. <br />Beside her the tall hero in a red wool robe <br />stirs the fire with his ivory cane. <br />The string quartet plays for itself, <br />gently, gently, sleeves and waxy bows. <br />The legs of the dancers leap and catch. <br />I myself have little stiff legs, <br />my back is as straight as a book <br />and how I came to this place— <br />the little feverish roses, <br />the islands of olives and radishes, <br />the blissful pastimes of the parlor— <br />I'll never know.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wallflower-2/
