Anne Sexton

Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound

I am surprised to see

that the ocean is still going on.

Now I am going back

and I have ripped my hand

from your hand as I said I would

and I have made it this far

as I said I would

and I am on the top deck now

holding my wallet, my cigarettes

and my car keys

at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday

in August of 1960.

Dearest,

although everything has happened,

nothing has happened.

The sea is very old.

the sea is the face of Mary,

without miracles or rage

or unusual hope,

grown rough and wrinkled

with incurable age.

Still,

I have eyes,

These are my eyes:

the orange letters that spell

ORIENT on the life preserver

that hangs by my knees;

the cement lifeboat that wears

its dirty canvas coat;

the faded sign that sits on its shelf

saying KEEP OFF.

Oh, alright, I say,

I'll save myself.

Over my right shoulder

I see four arms

who sit like a bridge club,

their faces poked out

from under their habits,

as good as good babies who

have sunk into their carriages.

Without discrimination

the wind pulls the skirts

of their arms.

Almost undressed,

I see what remains:

that holy wrist,

that ankle,

that chain.

Oh God,

although I am very sad,

could you please

let these four nuns

loosen their leather boots

and their wooden chairs

to rise out

over this greasy deck,

out over this iron rail,

nodding their pink heads to one side,

flying four abreast

in the old-fashioned side stroke;

each mouth open and round,

breathing together

as fish do,

singing without sound.

Dearest,

see how my dark girls sally forth,

over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut,

its shell as rusty

as a camp dish,

as fragile as a pagoda

on a stone;

out over the little lighthouse

that warns me of drowning winds

that rub over its blind bottom

and its blue cover;

winds that will take the toes

and the ears of the rider

or the lover.

There go my dark girls,

their dresses puff

in the leeward air.

Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs

or the breath of dolphins;

each mouth opens gratefully,

wider than a milk cup.

My dark girls sing for this.

They are going up.

See them rise

on black wings, drinking

the sky, without smiles

or hands

or shoes.

They call back to us

from the gauzy edge of paradise,

good news, good news.