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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345349" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>45 Mercy Street</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In my dream, <br>drilling into the marrow <br>of my entire bone, <br>my real dream, <br>I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill <br>searching for a street sign - <br>namely MERCY STREET. <br>Not there. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I try the Back Bay. <br>Not there. <br>Not there. <br>And yet I know the number. <br>45 Mercy Street. <br>I know the stained-glass window <br>of the foyer, <br>the three flights of the house <br>with its parquet floors. <br>I know the furniture and <br>mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, <br>the servants. <br>I know the cupboard of Spode <br>the boat of ice, solid silver, <br>where the butter sits in neat squares <br>like strange giant's teeth <br>on the big mahogany table. <br>I know it well. <br>Not there. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where did you go? <br>45 Mercy Street, <br>with great-grandmother <br>kneeling in her whale-bone corset <br>and praying gently but fiercely <br>to the wash basin, <br>at five A.M. <br>at noon <br>dozing in her wiggy rocker, <br>grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, <br>grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, <br>and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower <br>on her forehead to cover the curl <br>of when she was good and when she was... <br>And where she was begat <br>and in a generation <br>the third she will beget, <br>me, <br>with the stranger's seed blooming <br>into the flower called Horrid. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I walk in a yellow dress <br>and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, <br>enough pills, my wallet, my keys, <br>and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? <br>I walk. I walk. <br>I hold matches at street signs <br>for it is dark, <br>as dark as the leathery dead <br>and I have lost my green Ford, <br>my house in the suburbs, <br>two little kids <br>sucked up like pollen by the bee in me <br>and a husband <br>who has wiped off his eyes <br>in order not to see my inside out <br>and I am walking and looking <br>and this is no dream <br>just my oily life <br>where the people are alibis <br>and the street is unfindable for an <br>entire lifetime. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pull the shades down - <br>I don't care! <br>Bolt the door, mercy, <br>erase the number, <br>rip down the street sign, <br>what can it matter, <br>what can it matter to this cheapskate <br>who wants to own the past <br>that went out on a dead ship <br>and left me only with paper? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not there. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I open my pocketbook, <br>as women do, <br>and fish swim back and forth <br>between the dollars and the lipstick. <br>I pick them out, <br>one by one <br>and throw them at the street signs, <br>and shoot my pocketbook <br>into the Charles River. <br>Next I pull the dream off <br>and slam into the cement wall <br>of the clumsy calendar <br>I live in, <br>my life, <br>and its hauled up <br>notebooks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345349" data-title="45 Mercy Street de Anne Sexton" data-description="In my dream, 
drilling into the marrow 
of my entire bone, 
my real dream, 
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill 
searching for a street sign - 
namely MERCY STREET. 
Not there. 

I try the Back Bay. 
Not there. 
Not there. 
And yet I know the numb..."></div>
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