Dear Anne Sexton

On line at the supermarket

waiting for the tally,

the blue numerals

tattooed

on the white skins

of paper,

I read your open book

of folly

and take heart,

poet of my heart.



The poet as a housewife!

Keeper of steak & liver,

keeper of keys, locks, razors,

keeper of blood & apples,

of breasts & angels,

Jesus & beautiful women,

keeper also of women

who are not beautiful-



you glide in from Cape Ann

on your winged broomstick-

the housewife's Pegasus.



You are sweeping the skies clear

of celestial rubbish.

You are placing a child there,

a heart here. . . .

You are singing for your supper.



Dearest wordmother & hunger-teacher,

full professor of courage,

dean of women

in my school of books,

thank you.



I have checked out

pounds of meat & cans of soup.

I walk home laden,

light with writing you.