Flowers for Confessors

after TS Eliot

Anne Sexton was obsessed with death,
That bellringer, this gravedigger.
In stylish dress, with gin-smoked breath,
Her corpse lolled in the gas-drenched car.

Cocktail sticks poke out her eyes,
The housewife’s life in grim surmise.
Measured out in olives, parts,
Domestic violence, artichoke hearts.

Plath, I guess, preceded her,
As death begets, like rabbits breed.
She sought a solace in the slur
Against fathers, the daughter’s need.

She knew the pain of too much sense,
The flowers through the rotting ribs.
The pain for which no recompense
Occurs; not marriage, books, or kids.