<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345374" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Crossing the Atlantic</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">We sail out of season into on oyster-gray wind, <br>over a terrible hardness.<br>Where Dickens crossed with mal de mer<br>in twenty weeks or twenty days<br>I cross toward him in five.<br>Wraped in robes-<br>not like Caesar but like liver with bacon-<br>I rest on the stern<br>burning my mouth with a wind-hot ash, <br>watching my ship<br>bypass the swells<br>as easily as an old woman reads a palm.<br>I think; as I look North, that a field of mules<br>lay down to die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ship is 27 hours out.<br>I have entered her.<br>She might be a whale, <br>sleeping 2000 and ship's company, <br>the last 40¢ martini<br>and steel staterooms where night goes on forever.<br>Being inside them is, I think, <br>the way one would dig into a planet<br>and forget the word light.<br>I have walked cities, <br>miles of mole alleys with carpets.<br>Inside I have been ten girls who speak French.<br>They languish everywhere like bedsheets.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh my Atlantic of the cracked shores, <br>those blemished gates of Rockport and Boothbay, <br>those harbor smells like the innards of animals! <br>Old childish Queen, where did you go, <br>you bayer at wharfs and Victorian houses? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have read each page of my mother's voyage.<br>I have read each page of her mother's voyage.<br>I have learned their words as they learned Dickens'.<br>I have swallowed these words like bullets.<br>But I have forgotten the last guest-terror.<br>Unlike them, I cannot toss in the cabin<br>as in childbirth.<br>Now always leaving me in the West<br>is the wake, <br>a ragged bridal veil, unexplained, <br>seductive, always rushing down the stairs, <br>never detained, never enough.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ship goes on<br>as though nothing else were happening.<br>Generation after generation, <br>I go her way.<br>She will run East, knot by knot, over an old bloodstream, <br>stripping it clear, <br>each hour ripping it, pounding, pounding, <br>forcing through as through a virgin.<br>Oh she is so quick! <br>This dead street never stops!</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> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=345374" data-title="Crossing the Atlantic de Anne Sexton" data-description="We sail out of season into on oyster-gray wind, over a terrible hardness. Where Dickens crossed with mal de mer in twenty weeks or twenty days I cross toward him in five. Wraped in robes- not like Caesar but like liver with bacon- I rest on the s..."></div> </div> </div>

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