“Young”

(this is the title of one of Anne Sexton’s poems. The last line is an altered version of a line from that poem.)

It’s late morning at sugar House Coffee and I’m reading
Anne Sexton between sips of iced coffee, between
glances at the couples who stand in line, and the barista
calling out drinks, and ice grinding in the frap mixer.

A quiet music sleeps in the ceiling and the sun is kept
a safe distance away. It’s furious face makes the cars
rage with anger and the crude streets melt back
into oil. But not in here, drinking cold coffee with Anne.

Yes yes I know the wash is still waiting, the apartment floor
glitters with dust and dirt, seed beads and snips of tin wire.
I haven’t forgotten the credit card bill, or Medicaid paper work,
or the blankets that smell like dog and salt. I haven’t forgotten,

and they won’t forget me. So give me this morning with Anne
in our brand new bodies that aren’t quite women yet.

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