Flee On Your Donkey - Anne Sexton
Ma faim, Anne, Anne, Fuis sut ton â . . . Rimbaud Because there was no other place to flee to, I came back to the scene of the disordered senses, came back last night at midnight, arriving in the thick June night without luggage or defences, giving up my car keys and my cash, keeping only a pack of Salem cigarettes the way a child holds on to a toy. I signed myself in where a stranger puts the inked-in X's — for this is a mental hospital, not a child's game. Today an interne knocks my knees, testing for reflexes. Once I would have winked and begged for dope. Today I am ter...