We ride the sky down,
our voices falling back behind us,
unraveling like smooth threads.
—Anne Sexton, “Winter Colony”
When Anne Sexton died in 1974
you were five. You didn’t know
who she was, didn’t know you
would start writing poems in sixth
grade and never stop. Your grandmother
had two of Sexton’s books, and though
you never talked to her about poetry,
you always gave her a copy of your
publications, printing them out if they
appeared online. You wonder what
she would make of the poems you’re
writing now, what advice she would
offer about men and dating, perhaps
suggesting going back to how you
were, intentionally single and happy
that way. In 1974, your grandmother
was only fifty-five, just a few years older
than you are now. Her private life
remains a secret to you, and maybe
her advice would be to just stop
writing about it in such a public way.
Your favorite piece of art from
your grandmother’s house is a print
of Whistler’s Annabel Lee. The woman
is walking into water, shawl trailing
from her shoulders, a few blue flowers
in the sand by her bare feet. She is
letting herself unravel into the story,
doesn’t care who is watching. This part
is about her, and if a viewer didn’t know
the poem, the presence of a man
in the painting would be nowhere.
Beautiful poem