Damn it, Anne Sexton, now look what you made me do. I should be resting, but I poemed all over myself instead. All your fault. (Thank you.)

I love this woman. Spending the afternoon with her. If I must choose between The Moiraie of American 20th century literature--Dorothy, Sylvia, and Anne--I cast my thread of fate with Anne, every time, though I love and need them all.

I love Dad's copy of Nancy Drew and the Secret of the Old Clock. I love owning my parents' and grandparents' books, knowing we held the same covers, hunched over the same pages with a peanut butter sandwich, clutched forgotten in one hand, or under the covers after lights out.

I think I might be due for a rereading of some Nancy Drew. She was a badass.

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