Locked Doors by Anne Sexton

For the angels who inhabit this town,

although their shape constantly changes,

each night we leave some cold potatoes

and a bowl of milk on the windowsill.

Usually they inhabit heaven where,

by the way, no tears are allowed.

They push the moon around like

a boiled yam.

The Milky Way is their hen

with her many children.

When it is night the cows lie down

but the moon, that big bull,

stands up.

However,

there is a locked room up there

with an iron door that can't be opened.

It has all your bad dreams in it

It is hell.

Some say the devil locks the door

from the inside.

Some say

the angels lock it from the outside.

The people inside have no water

and are never allowed to touch.

They crack like macadam.

They are mute

They do not cry help

except inside

where their hearts are covered with grubs.

I would like to unlock that door,

turn the rusty key

and hold each fallen one in my arms

but I cannot,

I cannot.

I can only sit here on earth

at my place at the table.