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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345474" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Farmer's Wife</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345474" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">From the hodge porridge <br>of their country lust, <br>their local life in Illinois, <br>where all their acres look <br>like a sprouting broom factory, <br>they name just en years now <br>that she has been his habit; <br>as again tonight he'll say <br>honey bunch let's go <br>and she will not say how there <br>must be more to living <br>than this brief bright bridge <br>of the raucous bed or even <br>the slow braille touch of him <br>like a heavy god grown light, <br>that old pantomime of love <br>that she wants although <br>it leaves her still alone, <br>built back again at last, <br>mind's apart from him, living <br>her own self in her own words <br>and hating the sweat of the house <br>they keep when they finally lie <br>each in separate dreams <br>and then how she watches him, <br>still strong in the blowzy bag <br>of his usual sleep while <br>her young years bungle past <br>their same marriage bed <br>and she wishes him cripple, or poet, <br>or even lonely, or sometimes, <br>better, my lover, dead.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a></strong></div>