'Untitled' by Sarah Moon
I was
the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes,
the one with an old red hook in her mouth,
the mouth that kept bleeding
into the terrible fields of her soul.
The one who kept dropping off to sleep,
for hours and hours
and then she’d wake,
after the small death,
and then she’d be as soft as,
as delicate as,
an excess of light,
with nothing dangerous at all,
with no trap doors,
with nothing more honest
than your hand in her hand -
with nobody, nobody, but you.
Anne Sexton
.
“All my desires are born of my dreams. And I have proven my love with words. To what fantastic creatures have I entrusted myself, in what dolorous and ravishing world has my imagination enclosed me? I am sure of having been loved in the most mysterious of domains, my own. The language of my love does not belong to human language, my human body does not touch the flesh of my love. My amorous imagination has always been constant and high enough so that nothing could attempt to convince me of error.”
— Paul Éluard, At the Window