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For Anne Sexton

 

Razor-thin laser slices
of monochromatic memories
tumble from the bed-sheets

embroidered with the lit tip
of an anguish cigarette
sending smoke signals

to ravenous readers
scrabbling voyeurs
confessing their delight

looming cutouts, stand ins for emotional
states shot in anamorphic cinemascope
with close-ups to distort the actors

each inscribing a tale
scar trail to the molten core
every recorded infraction upon

the paper of her persona
burned away mixing ash
with tears to erode any trace

of those cardboard faces

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