The Fury Of Sundays - Anne Sexton
Moist, moist,
the heat leaking through the hinges,
sun baking the roof like a pie
and I and thou and she
eating, working, sweating,
droned up on the heat.
The sun as read as the cop car siren.
The sun as red as the algebra marks.
The sun as red as two electric eyeballs.
She wanting to take a bath in jello.
You and me sipping vodka and soda,
ice cubes melting like the Virgin Mary.
You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines,
all htis leprous day and then more vodka,
more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies,
the pond sucking out the throb.
Our bodies were trash.
We leave them on the shore.
I and thou and she
swin like minnows,
losing all our queens and kinds,
losing our hells and our tongues,
cool, cool, all day that Sunday in July
when we were young and did not look
into the abyss,
that God spot.
