A response to “The Awful Rowing Toward God”
                Anne Sexton, 1975  

In my boat with dead Anne
    my oars joined in her journeying
        strain to row toward the Almighty.  

The shoulders of my spirit     
    though broad      
        how they ache.                        

What help is damp courage?  
    Soaked habits cling. If I scrape away the fabric                        
        my skin peels with it.  

Ocean salt burns            
    heaping penance on penance.                        
        New currents spin me off course.  

Trying to navigate I realize
    while murmuring psalms
        my blistered palms have been rowing in circles.