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Anne Sexton - Clothes
Work rating: Low

Put on a clean shirt
before you die, some Russian said.
Nothing with drool, please,
no egg spots, no blood,
no sweat, no sperm.
You want me clean, God,
so I`ll try to comply.

The hat I was married in,
will it do?
White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array.
It`s old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug,
but is suits to die in something nostalgic.

And I`ll take
my painting shirt
washed over and over of course
spotted with every yellow kitchen I`ve painted.
God, you don`t mind if I bring all my kitchens?
They hold the family laughter and the soup.

For a bra
(need we mention it?),
the padded black one that my lover demeaned
when I took it off.
He said, "Where`d it all go?"

And I`ll take
the maternity skirt of my ninth month,
a window for the love-belly
that let each baby pop out like and apple,
the water breaking in the restaurant,
making a noisy house I`d like to die in.

For underpants I`ll pick white cotton,
the briefs of my childhood,
for it was my mother`s dictum
that nice girls wore only white cotton.
If my mother had lived to see it
she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office
for the black, the red, the blue I`ve worn.
Still, it would be perfectly fine with me
to die like a nice girl
smelling of Clorox and Duz.
Being sixteen-in-the-pants
I would die full of questions.
Source
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