Under my bowels, yellow with smoke, <br />it waits. <br />Under my eyes, those milk bunnies, <br />it waits. <br />It is waiting. <br />It is waiting. <br />Mr. Doppelganger. My brother. My spouse. <br />Mr. Doppelganger. My enemy. My lover. <br />When truth comes spilling out like peas <br />it hangs up the phone. <br />When the child is soothed and resting on the breast <br />it is my other who swallows Lysol. <br />When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet <br />it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. <br />My other beats a tin drum in my heart. <br />My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. <br />My other cries and cries and cries <br />when I put on a cocktail dress. <br />It cries when I prick a potato. <br />It cries when I kiss someone hello. <br />It cries and cries and cries <br />until I put on a painted mask <br />and leer at Jesus in His passion. <br />Then it giggles. <br />It is a thumbscrew. <br />Its hatred makes it clairvoyant. <br />I can only sign over everything, <br />the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, <br />the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. <br /> <br />Then I can sleep. <br /> <br />Maybe. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-other-9/
