that room that will bury us

I was wrapped in black 

fur and white fur and 

you undid me and then 

you placed me in gold light 

and then you crowned me, 

while snow fell outside 

the door in diagonal darts. 

While a ten-inch snow 

came down like stars 

in small calcium fragments, 

we were in our own bodies 

(that room that will bury us) 

and you were in my body 

(that room that will outlive us) 

and at first I rubbed your 

feet dry with a towel 

because I was your slave 

and then you called me princess. 

Princess! 

 

Oh then 

I stood up in my gold skin 

and I beat down the psalms 

and I beat down the clothes 

and you undid the bridle 

and you undid the reins 

and I undid the buttons, 

the bones, the confusions, 

the New England postcards, 

the January ten o'clock night, 

and we rose up like wheat, 

acre after acre of gold, 

and we harvested, 

we harvested. 

 

[Anne Sexton {1928-1974} ‘Us’, from Selected Poems of Anne Sexton]