To say your name is a coincidence
would be a trivialization. A poet's name
is never just a name; it is more than a
conglomerate of letters.

A poet's name is an oracular
tool; and with a name like
Sexton, it is no surprise to me
that you dug your own grave.

It is not that oil paint and tears do not mix,
my dear Frida; it is that society feels threatened
by the candour of women who create
art from their sadness.

When she was sad,
she was very sad indeed.

When she was lonely,
she was horrid.

“It’s you and me, Kid.”

{internal monologue}

Maybe if I push my sadness down
deep enough, it won’t be able to reach me anymore.

Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet,
eating her curds and whey.

Along came a spider
who sat down beside her,
and yet she does not stray.

Though an arachnid–
preferable sidekick,
better than being slain.

For, vacant across the room:
“A stool?” No! a tomb!
where he-wolf lies in wait.

I don’t want to carry bear spray
because I’m afraid of being
attacked by a bear; I want to
carry bear spray because I’m afraid
of being attacked by a man.