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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345354" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>All My Pretty Ones</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father, this year's jinx rides us apart <br>where you followed our mother to her cold slumber; <br>a second shock boiling its stone to your heart,<br>leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber<br>you from the residence you could not afford:<br>a gold key, your half of a woolen mill,<br>twenty suits from Dunne's, an English Ford,<br>the love and legal verbiage of another will, <br>boxes of pictures of people I do not know. <br>I touch their cardboard faces. They must go. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the eyes, as thick as wood in this album,<br>hold me. I stop here, where a small boy<br>waits in a ruffled dress for someone to come…<br>for this soldier who holds his bugle like a toy <br>or for this velvet lady who cannot smile.<br>Is this your father's father, this Commodore <br>in a mailman suit? My father, time meanwhile<br>has made it unimportant who you are looking for. <br>I'll never know what these faces are all about. <br>I lock them into their book and throw them out. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is the yellow scrapbook that you began<br>the year I was born; as crackling now and wrinkly<br>as tobacco leaves: clippings where Hoover outran <br>the Democrats, wiggling his dry finger at me <br>and Prohibition; news where the Hindenburg went <br>down and recent years where you went flush <br>on war. This year, solvent but sick, you meant<br>to marry that pretty widow in a one-month rush. <br>But before you had that second chance, I cried <br>on your fat shoulder. Three days later you died. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">These are the snapshots of marriage, stopped in places. <br>Side by side at the rail toward Nassau now; <br>here, with the winner's cup at the speedboat races, <br>here, in tails at the Cotillion, you take a bow,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>here, by our kennel of dogs with their pink eyes, <br>running like show-bred pigs in their chain-link pen; <br>here, at the horseshow where my sister wins a prize; <br>Now I fold you down, my drunkard, my navigator, <br>my first lost keeper, to love or look at later.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I hold a five-year diary that my mother kept <br>for three years, telling all she does not say <br>of your alcoholic tendency. You overslept, <br>she writes. My God, father, each Christmas Day <br>with your blood, will I drink down your glass <br>of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years <br>goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass. <br>Only in this hoarded span will love persevere. <br>Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you, <br>bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.</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=345354" data-title="All My Pretty Ones de Anne Sexton" data-description="Father, this year's jinx rides us apart 
where you followed our mother to her cold slumber; 
a second shock boiling its stone to your heart,
leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber
you from the residence you could not afford:
a gold key, your h..."></div>
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