Strangers' Words.

The Black Art by Anne Sexton
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough. 
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
 
Variations On The Word Sleep by Margaret Atwood
 
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head.
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons 
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as beathing in

I would like to be that air
that inhibits you for a moment
only. I want to be that unnoticed.
And that necessary.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
 
After A While by Veronica A. Shoffstall 

After a while you learn 
the subtle difference between 
holding a hand and chaining a soul.
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
and company doesn’t always mean security.
And you begin to learn 
that kisses aren’t contracts
and presents aren’t promises.
And you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead.
With the grace of a woman
not the grief of a child. 
And you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow’s ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way
of falling down in mid flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns if you get too much. 
So you plant your own garden
And decorate your own soul
 instead of waiting
for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn
that you really can endure.
That you are really strong.
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and you learn 
with every good bye you learn.