Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound

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I am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on. 
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would 
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on the top deck now 
holding my wallet, my cigarettes 
and my car keys
at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday
in August of 1960.

although everything has happened,
nothing has happened. 
The sea is very old.
The sea is the face of Mary,
without miracles or rage
or unusual hope,
grown rough and wrinkled
with incurable age.

I have eyes.
These are my eyes:
the orange letters that spell 
ORIENT on the life preserver 
that hangs by my knees;
the cement lifeboat that wears 
its dirty canvas coat;
the faded sign that sits on its shelf 
saying KEEP OFF.
Oh, all right, I say,
I’ll save myself.

Over my right shoulder 
I see four nuns
who sit like a bridge club, 
their faces poked out 
from under their habits,
as good as good babies who 
have sunk into their carriages. 
Without discrimination 
the wind pulls the skirts 
of their arms.
Almost undressed,
I see what remains:
that holy wrist,
that ankle,
that chain.

Oh God,
although I am very sad,
could you please
let these four nuns
loosen from their leather boots
and their wooden chairs
to rise out
over this greasy deck, 
out over this iron rail,
nodding their pink heads to one side, 
flying four abreast
in the old-fashioned side stroke;
each mouth open and round,
breathing together 
as fish do,
singing without sound.

see how my dark girls sally forth,
over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut, 
its shell as rusty
as a camp dish,
as fragile as a pagoda
on a stone;
out over the little lighthouse
that warns me of drowning winds
that rub over its blind bottom
and its blue cover;
winds that will take the toes
and the ears of the rider
or the lover.

There go my dark girls, 
their dresses puff 
in the leeward air.
Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs 
or the breath of dolphins;
each mouth opens gratefully,
wider than a milk cup.
My dark girls sing for this.
They are going up.
See them rise
on black wings, drinking
the sky, without smiles
or hands
or shoes.
They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,
good news, good news.

© Anne Sexton