The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos

by Anne Sexton

Anne Sexton

This singing

is a kind of dying,

a kind of birth,

a votive candle.

I have a dream-mother

who sings with her guitar,

nursing the bedroom

with a moonlight and beautiful olives.

A flute came too,

joining the five strings,

a God finger over the holes.

I knew a beautiful woman once

who sang with her fingertips

and her eyes were brown

like small birds.

At the cup of her breasts

I drew wine.

At the mound of her legs

I drew figs.

She sang for my thirst,

mysterious songs of God

that would have laid an army down.

It was as if a morning-glory

had bloomed in her throat

and all that blue

and small pollen

ate into my heart

violent and religious.