Anne Sexton: tall and lovely and dead,
and I, turning the knob, want to get in
and fuck her, but cannot,
because she is dead.
So really, I wanted to, past tense.
The point being:
how I wanted to fuck her, how—
Now, telling you about the biography I just read
on Anne Sexton: a poet, tall and lovely, who chain-smoked
and is now dead (by her own hand,
proving we claim stars when we can)
and why can’t I stop thinking about
how I am alive, how,
and she, the poet, Anne Sexton is dead,
and if we traded places—
a gravesite for a clean silver spade:
would she be the one
reading a biography about me,
and mooning for a twilight lay
with a dead writer?
These are the sort of questions
which keep me up at night,
and keep me reading biographies
dead and open to whatever.