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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345416" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Menstruation At Forty</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I was thinking of a son. <br>The womb is not a clock <br>nor a bell tolling, <br>but in the eleventh month of its life <br>I feel the November <br>of the body as well as of the calendar. <br>In two days it will be my birthday <br>and as always the earth is done with its harvest. <br>This time I hunt for death, <br>the night I lean toward, <br>the night I want. <br>Well then— <br>speak of it! <br>It was in the womb all along. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I was thinking of a son ... <br>You! The never acquired, <br>the never seeded or unfastened, <br>you of the genitals I feared, <br>the stalk and the puppy’s breath. <br>Will I give you my eyes or his? <br>Will you be the David or the Susan? <br>(Those two names I picked and listened for.) <br>Can you be the man your fathers are— <br>the leg muscles from Michelangelo, <br>hands from Yugoslavia <br>somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined, <br>somewhere the survivor bulging with life— <br>and could it still be possible, <br>all this with Susan’s eyes? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>All this without you— <br>two days gone in blood. <br>I myself will die without baptism, <br>a third daughter they didn’t bother. <br>My death will come on my name day. <br>What’s wrong with the name day? <br>It’s only an angel of the sun. <br>Woman, <br>weaving a web over your own, <br>a thin and tangled poison. <br>Scorpio, <br>bad spider— <br>die! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>My death from the wrists, <br>two name tags, <br>blood worn like a corsage <br>to bloom <br>one on the left and one on the right— <br>It’s a warm room, <br>the place of the blood. <br>Leave the door open on its hinges! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Two days for your death <br>and two days until mine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Love! That red disease— <br>year after year, David, you would make me wild! <br>David! Susan! David! David! <br>full and disheveled, hissing into the night, <br>never growing old, <br>waiting always for you on the porch ... <br>year after year, <br>my carrot, my cabbage, <br>I would have possessed you before all women, <br>calling your name, <br>calling you mine.</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=345416" data-title="Menstruation At Forty de Anne Sexton" data-description="I was thinking of a son. 
The womb is not a clock 
nor a bell tolling, 
but in the eleventh month of its life 
I feel the November 
of the body as well as of the calendar. 
In two days it will be my birthday 
and as always the earth is done with i..."></div>
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