The Poet of Ignorance
by Anne Sexton
Perhaps the earth is floating,
I do not know.
Perhaps the stars are little
paper cutups
made by some giant scissors,
I do not know.
Perhaps the moon is a frozen
tear,
I do not know.
Perhaps god is only a deep
voice
heard by the deaf,
I do not know.
Perhaps I am no one.
True, I have a body
and I cannot escape from it.
I would like to fly out of
my head,
but that is out of the question.
It is written on the tablet
of destiny
that I am stuck here in this
human form.
That being the case
I would like to call attention
to my problem.
There is an animal inside of
me,
clutching fast to my heart,
a huge crab.
The doctors of Boston
have thrown up their hands.
They have tried scalpels,
needles, poison gasses and
the like.
The crab remains.
It is a great weight.
I try to forget it, go
about my business,
cook the broccoli and shut
books,
brush my teeth and tie my
shoes.
I have tried prayer
but as I pray the crab grips
harder
and the pain enlarges.
I had a dream once,
perhaps it was a dream,
that the crab was my ignorance
of God.
But who am I to believe in
dreams?
|
and 
