They come on to my clean <br />sheet of paper and leave a Rorschach blot. <br />They do not do this to be mean, <br />they do it to give me a sign <br />they want me, as Aubrey Beardsley once said, <br />to shove it around till something comes. <br />Clumsy as I am, <br />I do it. <br />For I am like them - <br />both saved and lost, <br />tumbling downward like Humpty Dumpty <br />off the alphabet. <br /> <br />Each morning I push them off my bed <br />and when they get in the salad <br />rolling in it like a dog, <br />I pick each one out <br />just the way my daughter <br />picks out the anchovies. <br />In May they dance on the jonquils, <br />wearing out their toes, <br />laughing like fish. <br />In November, the dread month, <br />they suck the childhood out of the berries <br />and turn them sour and inedible. <br /> <br />Yet they keep me company. <br />They wiggle up life. <br />They pass out their magic <br />like Assorted Lifesavers. <br />They go with me to the dentist <br />and protect me form the drill. <br />At the same time, <br />they go to class with me <br />and lie to my students. <br /> <br />O fallen angel, <br />the companion within me, <br />whisper something holy <br />before you pinch me <br />into the grave.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fallen-angels-2/
