And this is the way they ring <br />the bells in Bedlam <br />and this is the bell-lady <br />who comes each Tuesday morning <br />to give us a music lesson <br />and because the attendants make you go <br />and because we mind by instinct, <br />like bees caught in the wrong hive, <br />we are the circle of crazy ladies <br />who sit in the lounge of the mental house <br />and smile at the smiling woman <br />who passes us each a bell, <br />who points at my hand <br />that holds my bell, E flat, <br />and this is the gray dress next to me <br />who grumbles as if it were special <br />to be old, to be old, <br />and this is the small hunched squirrel girl <br />on the other side of me <br />who picks at the hairs over her lip, <br />who picks at the hairs over her lip all day, <br />and this is how the bells really sound, <br />as untroubled and clean <br />as a workable kitchen, <br />and this is always my bell responding <br />to my hand that responds to the lady <br />who points at me, E flat; <br />and although we are not better for it, <br />they tell you to go. And you do.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ringing-the-bells/
