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Anne Sexton - The Fury Of Beautiful Bones
Work rating: Low

Sing me a thrush, bone. 
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle. 
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather. 
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love. 
Oh sing, bone bag man, sing. 
Your head is what I remember that August 
you were in love with another woman but 
that didn`t matter. I was the guy of your 
bones, your fingers long and nubby, your 
forehead a beacon, bare as marble and I worried 
you like an odor because you had not quite forgotten, 
bone bag man, garlic in the North End, 
the book you dedicated, naked as a fish, 
naked as someone drowning into his own mouth. 
I wonder, Mr. Bone man, what you`re thinking 
of your fury now, gone sour as a sinking whale, 
crawling up the alphabet on her own bones. 
Am I in your ear still singing songs in the rain, 
me of the death rattle, me of the magnolias, 
me of the sawdust tavern at the city`s edge. 
Women have lovely bones, arms, neck, thigh 
and I admire them also, but your bones 
supersede loveliness. They are the tough 
ones that get broken and reset. I just can`t 
answer for you, only for your bones, 
round rulers, round nudgers, round poles, 
numb nubkins, the sword of sugar. 
I feel the skull, Mr. Skeleton, living its 
own life in its own skin.
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