On Being Asked to Write a Poem in Memory of Anne Sexton

The elk discards his antlers every spring.

They rebud, they grow, they are growing

an inch a day to form a rococo rack

with a five-foot spread even as we speak:

cartilage at first, covered with velvet;

bendable, tender gristle, yet

destined to ossify, the velvet sloughed off,

hanging in tatters from alders and scrub growth.

No matter how hardened it seems there was pain.

Blood on the snow from rubbing, rubbing, rubbing.

What a heavy candelabrum to be borne

forth, each year more elaborately turned:

the special issues, the prizes in her name.

Above the mantle the late elk’s antlers gleam.