(for Anne Sexton) She carried her love into a whole other house leaving her splendid eye for detail in the world. Softer truths enfold her now, hopefully, there, out there with the stars she devoured. So, be kind to her. She was the best. Nobody bit into the darkness as prettily as Anne. Nobody mined the depths as courageously, to set down on the page in her own blood, open veins judged inappropriate by jealous academics. She was the real deal, the one who does not relinquish her quest, a craving for absence that gnawed and whined. Perhaps she felt its velvet glove already brushing past her bones, the witch’s invitation to a table dance. Come in Lay down your burden Lay down your burden Leave your flesh at the door This is a real party Regardless, what beckoned what called must have wafted stronger than a blood rose, promising marriage and peace, a stepping down, as she acquiesced to ride the slow carbon monoxide air home.