Killing The Spring

By: Anne Sexton

When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person has died for no reason. Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Spring had been bulldozed under.
She would not, would not, would not.
Late April, late May
and the metallic rains kept on.
From my gun-metal window I watched
how the dreadful tulips
swung on their hinges,
beaten down like pigeons.

Then I ignored spring.
I put on blinders and road on a donkey
in a circle, a warm circle.
I tried for ride for eternity
but I came back.
I swallowed my sour meat
but it came back.
I struck out memory with an X
but it came back.
I tied down time with a rope
but it came back.

Then
I put my head in a death bowl
and my eyes shut up like clams.
They didn't come back.
I was declared legally blind
by my boots and papers.
My eyes, those two blue gods,
would not come back.
My eyes, those sluts, those whores,
would play no more.

Next, I nailed my hands
onto a pine box.
I followed the blue veins
like a neon road map.
My hands, those touchers, those bears,
would not reach out and speak.
They could no longer get in the act.
They were fastened down to oblivion.
They did not come back.
They were through their abominable habits.
They were in training for a crucifixion.
They could not reply.

Next I took my ears,
those two cold moons,
and drowned them in the Atlantic.
They were not wearing a mask.
They were not deceived by laughter.
They were not luminous like a clock.
They sank like oiled birds.
They did not come back.
I waited with my bones on the cliff
to see if they'd float in like slick
but they did not come back.

I could not see the spring.
I could not hear the spring.
I could not touch the spring.
Once upon a time a young person
died for no reason.
I was the same.