A Request and Confession for Ms. Anne Sexton

Bronze-legged beauty, Cleopatra grand,
face of a sphinx, eyes: two sharks—blue,
sharp as razor blades, dear lady, 
in consideration of all your loveliness,
your tongue of flame, the long dresses
you wore to readings: white-fingered hems 
brushing the floor—a girl making
mud pies in her Sunday best, yes,
to the lady with rocks in her throat  
If I could, I would say, please
don’t disappear into that garage
tonight! Don’t lower the boom,  
seal your doors to brave CO euphoria,
your head’s dark flower wilting
to one side, monoxide snaking  
the air like a terrible idea, hands
drained of blood now, no longer
steering, hands that tapped and  
tapped, spinning the brave word web
from here to hell and back. I’m
aware of your lousy mothering— 
the fits and rages, bone gouged
walls—at least one daughter tossed
like cooked pasta. Inexcusable. 
Understandable. Just ask those ladies
lunching in their tennis skirts—latte-lipped,
Botox bonded, swallowed up  
in the echo of a pocketbook. Anger
zipped everywhere. So why pretend?
You’re the sister I want to hang  
out with and rat on, blue fire
to stare and spit into, though
I’d be lying not to admit something       
in me craves derangement, too—
a padded place for undoing myself,
cockroach skittering through my own  
cracked walls—a room where crows
soft shoe beneath floorboards
and sirens bleed the light—bewitched  
windows filled with sable-haired
trees, their songs calling me
to crawl outside and marry, marry the night. 

Window Seat
 
This boy fallen asleep next to me,
head cocked to the safety glass,
beyond us, the night’s chenille pillow
starred with emerging city lights.
When he wakes, shuffles down
the aisle, I can tell he’s
a little off, the way he toddles
his oversized Keds there and back —
‘scuse me he mutters, eyes
avoiding mine,not out of shyness
so much as fastened to an inner place,
where a mind can manage
a limited number of thoughts,
the simple, overwhelming world
of a mentally impaired male.
Last row, the seat between us empty,
he nods out again
and I can drink every feature:
the black, slicked-forward bangs,
lips’ subtle pucker, nerdy shirt
plaiding to both wrists. Recycled air
swirls the cabin: coffee, spearmint,
lavatory pee and lemon cleanser.
I think of my sweet boy back home,
his own synaptic funhouse,
how someday he’ll be grown
like this autistic one—boarding planes,
zig-zagging highways
without me to smooth the edges,
be his eyes, guard him from harm.
Who’ll be there to wake him
should he need to flee or fight?
Now we see-saw the clouds,
a trampoline of turbulence,
audible gasps a few rows ahead,
an acid bloom in my own tight throat.
Engines roar, landing gear ka-chungs,
but as we lean towards the earth,
this gentle one slumbers on,
his lids: two shades drawn down.