#poem #poetry #amwriting True Dead

True Dead
(for Anne Sexton)

If she didn't wear knickers,
but for that dress she would be naked.
The cigarette
at odds to the angle of her hand.
Her hands set for back-hand
and her hair set
for a ruddy cheeked 'well played'
between the games;
fingers resetting the fringe
in a gesture of 'will you play me again'.

It's all so grown up.
So effortlessly measured

but what of the dead left eye,
and the right that burns more bright than love.

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