For You, Dead Woman

I melt red wax,
which pools like blood
in the concavity of the cup,
diffusing the room
with the scent of purple
roses in a pine forest,
and read Anne Sexton,
understanding the madness
that drove her to the pen
and then to the poison,
of a garage infused
with the reek of the beast
of her ruin.
Her wraith is immortalized,
contained in volumes
bound by spines that hold
her up, shake her body
and say live, live woman,
though you've died, over
and over again, when
we reach the end of your
awful rowing toward God.

Mary Beth Kosich