Anna Who Was Mad - Anne Sexton

Anna who was mad, 

 I have a knife in my armpit. 

When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages. 

Am I some sort of infection? 

 Did I make you go insane? 

 Did I make the sounds go sour? 

 Did I tell you to climb out the window? 

 Forgive. Forgive. 

Say not I did. 

Say not. 

Say. 

 Speak Mary-words into our pillow. 

Take me the gangling twelve-year-old into your sunken lap. 

Whisper like a buttercup. 

Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding. 

Take me in. 

Take me. 

Take. 

Give me a report on the condition of my soul. 

Give me a complete statement of my actions. 

Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in. 

Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through. 

Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy. 

Did I make you go insane?

Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through? 

Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist who dragged you out like a gold cart? 

Did I make you go insane? 

From the grave write me, Anna! 

You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless 

pick up the Parker Pen I gave you. 

Write me. 

Write.