Tags
Adrienne Rich, Anne Sexton, check your tongue, dire verse universe, feminism, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Sylvia Plath
Of my three aunts, Sylvia, Adrienne
and Anne, two killed themselves and one refused
to look at me. I’ve loved them. I’ve loved gin,
static-buzz, bone-fever — all that confused
their words with being something more. “Nomen
est omen:” call me, “Left Behind.” Call her:
“Matertera.” Without these three women
what am I? Check your tongue about that slur
that I’ve broken my pact made between gods
and their dire verse; as if either pleased.
Tonight I want an aunt’s voice that marauds
through my skull, that translates all that buzzed
into something. Confessions. I love them.
I love their words. Their so-called hate and sin.
