The Room of My Life
Here,in the room of my lifethe objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,the suffering brother of the wood walls,the forty-eight keys of the typewritereach an eyeball that is never shut,the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,the sockets on the wallwaiting like a cave of bees,the gold ruga conversation of heels and toes,the fireplace a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,the phonetwo flowers taking root in its crotch,the doorsopening and closing like sea clams,the lights poking at me,lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows, the starving windowsthat drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out therealthough birds exploderight and left.
I feed the world in here too, offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my handsand the sea that bangs in my throat.
Anne Sexton
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