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Anne Sexton - Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound
Work rating: Low

I am surprised to see 
that the ocean is still going on. 
Now I am going back 
and I have ripped my hand 
from your hand as I said I would 
and I have made it this far 
as I said I would 
and I am on the top deck now 
holding my wallet, my cigarettes 
and my car keys 
at 2 o`clock on a Tuesday 
in August of 1960. 
Dearest, 
although everything has happened, 
nothing has happened. 
The sea is very old. 
the sea is the face of Mary, 
without miracles or rage 
or unusual hope, 
grown rough and wrinkled 
with incurable age. 
Still, 
I have eyes, 
These are my eyes: 
the orange letters that spell 
ORIENT on the life preserver 
that hangs by my knees; 
the cement lifeboat that wears 
its dirty canvas coat; 
the faded sign that sits on its shelf 
saying KEEP OFF. 
Oh, alright, I say, 
I`ll save myself. 
Over my right shoulder 
I see four arms 
who sit like a bridge club, 
their faces poked out 
from under their habits, 
as good as good babies who 
have sunk into their carriages. 
Without discrimination 
the wind pulls the skirts 
of their arms. 
Almost undressed, 
I see what remains: 
that holy wrist, 
that ankle, 
that chain. 
Oh God, 
although I am very sad, 
could you please 
let these four nuns 
loosen their leather boots 
and their wooden chairs 
to rise out 
over this greasy deck, 
out over this iron rail, 
nodding their pink heads to one side, 
flying four abreast 
in the old-fashioned side stroke; 
each mouth open and round, 
breathing together 
as fish do, 
singing without sound. 
Dearest, 
see how my dark girls sally forth, 
over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut, 
its shell as rusty 
as a camp dish, 
as fragile as a pagoda 
on a stone; 
out over the little lighthouse 
that warns me of drowning winds 
that rub over its blind bottom 
and its blue cover; 
winds that will take the toes 
and the ears of the rider 
or the lover. 
There go my dark girls, 
their dresses puff 
in the leeward air. 
Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs 
or the breath of dolphins; 
each mouth opens gratefully, 
wider than a milk cup. 
My dark girls sing for this. 
They are going up. 
See them rise 
on black wings, drinking 
the sky, without smiles 
or hands 
or shoes. 
They call back to us 
from the gauzy edge of paradise, 
good news, good news.
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