Fjirde psalm
Want ik bin in wees mei twa deademaskers op de skoarstienmantel en kaam út it grêf fan myn mem har búk wei yn it beweech fan Boston.
Want der seagen mar twa finsters út op ’e stêd en de gebouwen ieten my op.
Want ik wie ynbakere yn fetwol fan myn heit syn bedriuw en koe my net bewege of de tiid freegje.
Want Anne en Christopher waarden berne yn myn holle doe’t ik gûlde by it grêf fan de roazen, de fjouwerennjoggentich roazige weeshuzen yn myn sliepkeamer.
Want Christopher, myn ynbylde broer, myn twilling, hold syn babypimel fêst as in foarntsje.
Want ik waard in wy en dat ynbylde wy waard tagedien selskip as de grutte ballonnen harren net oer ús bûgden.
Want ik koe net lêze of prate en yn de lange nachten koe ik net de moanne útsette of de autoljochten lâns it plafond telle.
Want ik lei dêr sa bleek as moal en dronk moannesop út in rubberen dop.
Want ik pisse yn ’e broek en Christopher die it kloklêzen, de klok tikke as in krikel yn july en beweegde swijend syn leppels.
Want ik poepte en Christopher glimke en sei, lit de lucht swiet wêze fan dyn dong.
Want ik lústere nei Christopher, mar net as de ballon kaam om myn ferbân te ferskjinjen.
Want myn krús jokke en der wienen hannen dy’t der oalje op smarden.
Want ik lei dea-allinne. Christopher lei nêst my. Hy libbe.
Want ik lei as papieren roazen sa stram en Christopher pakte in tinnen waskbekken en wosk my.
Want ik prate net mar de gûchelder liet my trúks mei bloed sjen.
Want ik hearde oars net as de gûchelder dy’t nêst my lei en as in radio spile.
Want ik skriemde doe en myn doaske wiggele mankelyk.
Want ik wie yn in beheining fan wol en ferve planken. Wêr binne wy Christopher? It kasjot, sei hy.
Want de keamer sels wie in doaze. Fjouwer dikke muorren fan roazen. In plafond dat Christopher leech en bedriigjend fûn.
Want ik glimke en der wie net ien om it te sjen. Christopher sliepte. Hy makke in seelûd.
Want ik liet myn fingers wiggelje mar se bleaunen net te plak. Ik krige se net te plak. Se ûntsnapten oan myn mûle.
Want ik poarke mysels út ’e sliep, út de griene keamer. De sliep fan de wanhopigen dy’t tebek it tsjuster yn reizgje.
Want berte wie in sykte en Christopher en ik betochten de remeedzje.
Want wy slokke gûchelderij op en sette Anne op ’e wrâld.
Fourth Psalm
For I am an orphan with two death masks on the mantel and came from the grave of my mama’s belly into the commerce of Boston.
For there were only two windows on the city and the buildings ate me.
For I was swaddled in grease wool from my father’s company and could not move or ask the time.
For Anne and Christopher were born in my head as I howled at the grave of the roses, the ninety-four rose crèches of my bedroom.
For Christopher, my imaginary brother, my twin holding his baby cock like a minnow.
For I became a we and this imaginary we became a kind company when the big balloons did not bend over us.
For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
For I lay as pale as flour and drank moon juice from a rubber tip.
For I wet my pants and Christopher told the clock and it ticked like a July cricket and silently moved its spoons.
For I shat and Christopher smiled and said let the air be sweet with your soil.
For I listened to Christopher unless the balloon came and changed my bandage.
For my crotch itched and hands oiled it.
For I lay as single as death. Christopher lay beside me. He was living.
For I lay as stiff as paper roses and Christopher took a tin basin and bathed me.
For I spoke not but the magician played me tricks of the blood.
For I heard not but for the magician lying beside me playing like a radio.
For I cried then and my little box wiggled with melancholy.
For I was in a boundary of wool and painted boards. Where are we Christopher? Jail, he said.
For the room itself was a box. Four thick walls of roses. A ceiling Christopher found low and menacing.
For I smiled and there was no one to notice. Christopher was asleep. He was making a sea sound.
For I wiggled my fingers but they would not stay. I could not put them in place. They broke out of my mouth.
For I was prodding myself out of my sleep, out of the green room. The sleep of the desperate who travel backwards into darkness.
For birth was a disease and Christopher and I invented the cure.
For we swallow magic and we deliver Anne.
O Ye Tongues [IV], út The Death Notebooks, 1974
Boston – Anne Sexton waard berne as Anne Gray Harvey op 9 novimber 1928 yn Newton, Massachusetts, 12 kilometer westlik fan Boston.
grease wool from my father’s company – Sexton har heit, Ralph Churchill Harvey (1900–1959), hie in hannelsfirma yn wol.