fear of being that alone,
kept me busy making a deal
as if I could buy
my way out of it
and it worked for two years
and all of July.
This August I began to dream of drowning. The dying
went on and on in water as white and clear
as the gin I drink each day at half-past five.
Going down for the last time, the last breath lying,
I grapple with eels like ropes – it's ether, it's queer
and then, at last, it's done. Now the scavengers arrive,
the hard crawlers who come to élan up the ocean floor.
And death, that old butcher, will bother me no more.
had this dream before
except twice when my parents
clung to rafts
and sat together for death,
like lewd photographs.
Who listens to dreams? Only symbols for something –
like money for the analyst or your mother's wig,
the arm I almost lost in the washroom wringer,
following fear to its core, tugging the old string.
But real drowning is for someone else. It's too big
to put in your mouth on purpose, it puts hot stingers
in your tongue and vomit in your nose as your lungs break.
Tossed like a wet dog by that juggler, you die awake.
pumps me around and around
until I fade slowly
and the crowd laughs.
I fade out, and old bicycle rider
whose odds are measured
in actuary graphs.
This weekend the papers were black with the new highway
fatalities and in Boston the strangler found another victim
and we were all in Truro drinking beer and writing checks.
The other rode the surf, commanding rafts like sleighs.
I swam – but the tide came in like ten thousand orgasms.
I swam – but the waves were higher than horses' necks.
I was shut up in that closet, until, biting the door,
they dragged me out, dribbling urine on the gritty shore.
And you'll know...
an ant in a pot of chocolate,
and surrounds you.
There is no news in fear
but in the end it's fear
that drowns you.
--Anne Sexton, September 1962