Anne Sexton

The Death Baby

1. DREAMS

I was an ice baby.

I turned to sky blue.

My tears became two glass beads.

My mouth stiffened into a dumb howl.

They say it was a dream

but I remember that hardening.

My sister at six

dreamt nightly of my death:

"The baby turned to ice.

Someone put her in the refrigerator

and she turned as hard as a Popsicle."

I remember the stink of the liverwurst.

How I was put on a platter and laid

between the mayonnaise and the bacon.

The rhythm of the refrigerator

had been disturbed.

The milk bottle hissed like a snake.

The tomatoes vomited up their stomachs.

The caviar turned to lave.

The pimentos kissed like cupids.

I moved like a lobster,

slower and slower.

The air was tiny.

The air would not do.

*

I was at the dogs' party.

I was their bone.

I had been laid out in their kennel

like a fresh turkey.

This was my sister's dream

but I remember that quartering;

I remember the sickbed smell

of the sawdust floor, the pink eyes,

the pink tongues and the teeth, those nails.

I had been carried out like Moses

and hidden by the paws

of ten Boston bull terriers,

ten angry bulls

jumping like enormous roaches.

At first I was lapped,

rough as sandpaper.

I became very clean.

Then my arm was missing.

I was coming apart.

They loved me until

I was gone.

2. THE DY-DEE DOLL

My Dy-dee doll

died twice.

Once when I snapped

her head off

and let if float in the toilet

and once under the sun lamp

trying to get warm

she melted.

She was a gloom,

her face embracing

her little bent arms.

She died in all her rubber wisdom.

3. SEVEN TIMES