Praying on a 707
by Anne Sexton
Mother,
each time I talk to God
you interfere.
You of the bla-bla set,
carrying on about the state of letters.
If I write a poem
you give a treasurer’s report.
If I make love
you give me the funniest lines.
Mrs. Sarcasm,
why are there any childrem left?
They hold up their bows.
They curtsy in just your style.
They shake their hands how-do-you-do
in the same inimitable manner.
They pass over the soup with parsley
as you never could.
They take their children into their arms
like cups of warm cocoa
as you never could
and yet and yet
with your smile, your dimple we ape you,
we ape you further…
the great pine of summer,
the beach that oiled you,
the garden made of noses,
the moon tied down over the sea,
the great warm-blooded dogs…
the doll you gave me, Mary Gray,
or your mother gave me
or the maid gave me.
Perhaps the maid.
She had soul,
being Italian.
Mother,
each time I talk to God
you interfere.
Up there in the jet,
below the clouds as small as puppies,
the sun standing fire,
I talked to God and ask him
to speak of my failures, my successes,
ask him to morally make an assessment
He does.
He says,
you haven’t,
you haven’t.
Mother,
you and God
float with the same belly
up.
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