For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
by Anne Sexton
Not that it was beautiful,
but that,
in the end,
there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the common
places of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be,
finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass,
an inverted bowl.
It is a small thingto rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you,
or your house
or your kitchen.
And if you turn awaybecause there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
for someone
in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find
in a lovelier place,
my dear,
although your fear is anyone's fear,
like an invisible veil between us all...
and sometimes in private,
my kitchen,
your kitchen,
my face,
your face.
C Anne Sexton
