I Remember
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color—no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
A little history: Anne Sexton was good friends with Sylvia Plath and this was after Sylvia Plath killed herself by sticking her head in an oven. Make of that what you will, just thought you ought to know.
Anne Sexton is another "confessional" poet in many senses of the word. They do tend to dramatize things.
