Refusing to Be Blessed

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes In their stone boots. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone. —Anne Sexton Pick up the smooth stone at your boot tip— Quickly blow the dust off the edge. This is for Sexton’s mother who died March 1959. This is for Sexton’s father who died June 1959. This is for love born in September 1949. When Autumn came, it left the trees bare. Leaves are but whisper ready to become snow. No sign of a harvest, no corn. This is for Anne. I breathe out carbon, breathe in carbon, in early October 1971. The stones in the river’s currents Are polished. I was conceived in the empty Winter. Little did I know when Coyote threw His one stone into the perfect pool, it meant One by one, we die just as amber mosquitoes. For the Navajo people, Coyote threw the stone Into the ocean for our survival. Across the ocean, Past television screens—Marie, sweet Marie— This is for Marie’s voice and scrolling words: Tumor in the back of the head. The black birds Fill the sky as icy hail: It Must Have Been Love. September 2002, I have lived another year. I wish Sweden to keep her goddess of music. Another new moon passes and I understand The word terminal. This is for Coyote And his ability to hide his life force. This again Is for understanding Sexton today. This is for My mother who will weave an AIDS quilt. She’ll use a loom and yarn and tears, this is for Love and hoping that when the universe ends We never hear the splash. We never hear th—