Anne Sexton: tall and lovely and dead,
and I, turning the knob, want to get in
and fuck her, but cannot,
because she is dead.
So really, I wanted to, past tense.
The point being:
how I wanted to fuck her, how—
Now, telling you about the biography I just read
on Anne Sexton: a poet, tall and lovely, who chain-smoked
and is now dead (by her own hand,
proving we claim stars when we can)
and why can’t I stop thinking about
how I am alive, how,
and she, the poet, Anne Sexton is dead,
and if we traded places—
a gravesite for a clean silver spade:
would she be the one
reading a biography about me,
and mooning for a twilight lay
with a dead writer?
These are the sort of questions
which keep me up at night,
and keep me reading biographies
about writers
dead  and open to whatever.

… and all the piper’s children will swim
the sea’s misaligned symmetry,
where crested upon a wave,
about to buckle,
that wild mane of curly locks—
kinked tresses
tossed by a trident, cross,
and sudsalty tears.

Now, Thomas, who’s doubting
that off the Horse
your Fall from a stool
would resound in Heaven?

A loss is a loss, of course,
and from the trough the Gift Horse
feeds on paperthin straw.
Yet,
Death’s goodnight,
whether gentle as a cotton kiss,
or unrepentantly rough,
will not shut you up:
so you answer my poem in quizzical morse code:
Am I not the charmed sorcerer
made to spin straw into gold?
Am I not 18 whiskies
away from some sort of
cornerturned Eternity?

Locks, braggadocio,
and lyrical lilt aside,
I say rest now,
rest well knowing
your sheaf of spindly myths
have rooted and outsprouted
a series of stately trees . . .
and not a single branch is bare of birdsong.

When alive
and shouldering a mountain’s sea of salt,
bone and blade gritted together,
friction-forging wings,
singed,
inciting the burning bird to sing
of horizons to come.

The mind on fire
in its toil and hum,
cast curses
givin birth to excursions
convertin boils to storm.

All in all bricks in the wall,
but the horse, dreaming itself a strange bird,
turned flights of fancy
into racing against the grain—
handicap railsplittin the odds
into breaks:
the heart’s hiccupped bluff and puff
and skip and scratch
bring it back
bluff and puff and skip and scratch—

repeat action tracked
to the belief
that just beyond the wall
lay a relief route doubling as a refuge.

Fear not, Thomas, you doubting fool
and swindler savant,
for poetry’s High Court of Judges
gavelslammin the verdict:
Guilty,
of sentimental excess,
Guilty,
of verses cryptic, obscene, and lacking coherence,
Guilty,
of gifts godgiven soiled and neglected—
can no longer lay siege to the pink of your ears
and easy-to-bruise-blue-Ego.

Blessed be death’s deafness
to shouldacouldawouldabeen
criticisms and bonepicks—
meaning means nil
when what you gave
is all the matter we’ve got
on record
in a soundproofed safe for the ages.

It is common knowledge
that all the piper’s children
and king’s horses
splash frantically in the end—
last-gasp ravenous for one more song,
a barstool ditty
or seaconched choral,
just one more song
so as not to serenade the setting sun
on an unmade deathbed,
regretfully saying: “After 39 years, this is all I’ve done.”

It is time to rest, Thomas.
The horse is dead,
its head cut off and flung to the sea,
undertow tagging its gift mouth,
which continues to shout forget-me-nots
in dramatic Welsh baritone.

It is time for one last tip a the glass, Thomas,
a toast to you and your Wumblyworld menagerie of horses, birds,
cripples, perverts, lovers and milkmaidens.

— John Biscello