The Fury Of Hating Eyes
I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere off the North Atlantic and suffocate them with the awful sand and put all their colors to sleep in that soft smother.
Take the brown eyes of my father, those gun shots, those mean muds.
Bury them.
Take the blue eyes of my mother, naked as the sea, waiting to pull you down where there is no air, no God.
Bury them.
Take the black eyes of my love, coal eyes like a cruel hog, wanting to whip you and laugh.
Bury them.
Take the hating eyes of martyrs, presidents, bus collectors, bank managers, soldiers.
Bury them.
Take my eyes, half blind and falling into the air.
Bury them.
Take your eyes.
I come to the center, where a shark looks up at death and thinks of my heart and squeeze it like a doughnut.
They'd like to take my eyes and poke a hatpin through their pupils.
Not just to bury but to stab.
As for your eyes,
I fold up in front of them in a baby ball and you send them to the State Asylum.
Look!
Look!
Both those mice are watching you from behind the kind bars.
Anne Sexton
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