Courtesy
                 for Anne Sexton

                                                When a revolution occurred the new despot was asked
                                                 "What’s the first thing to do?" and he said "Kill the Poets."

WHAT THE REPORTER SAW

                 The vodka was on
                 dashboard. The poet
                 was in the driver's seat.*
                 The map had been
                 marked like the
                 surgeon’s
                 final choice.

WHAT THE MOUSE IN THE WHEEL SAW

                 The slinky in its long dis-
                 tortion has met
                 the grave
                 at the bottom
                 of the stairs. Now it sees
                 the ankles of children.
                 Now in the wooden box,
                 talking to clowns. Life
                 in its spinning, spirals
                 long. Controlled
                 and with only
                 the gentlest
                 of trips.

WHAT GRETEL SAW

                 Now the poet is gone
                 the Kingdom carries on.
                 Now the voice is packed
                 into the safety
                 of earth. Now there is
                 no late night longing
                 phone, no spring
                 for clean sheets, no affairs
                 for an empty body—
                 Our sovereign good
                 witch. Dead. Forgot
                 her stick. Picked clean
                 of words. Letters
                 at her feet. Loved
                 to a pulp. Alone
                 even when fed
                 with the fat
                 bodies
                 of children.

WHAT MAX SAW

                 Your happiness was like snow flakes,
                 Seeable, separate, melting
                 except in a storm.
                 The dirt of footprints and tire tracks.
                 The heave of pipe sucking
                 men on the lawn
                 in front of your foggy
                 bone house. You lived
                 with your tongue stuck straight out

WHAT THE HEART SAW, AND LATER, THE GHOST

                                                                                                                                                   —Catching.
                 A screaming, spinning
                 wrench. Ripping
                 in and out of arms. Self.
                 Landing. Bouncing.
                 Landing. Again. Cracking
                 and leaking. Watching
                 the seep. Wanting to be
                 filled like all delicate
                 balloons. —So you filled,
                 floating, your shoulders
                 turning over, white fire
                 on the dashboard, your
                 cheekbone on the wheel.

* excerpt from JD McClatchy "The Voice of the Poet: Anne Sexton"