For Daphne, Anne Sexton, and Me, Where We Live In This Honorable House of the Laurel Tree

Somebody already wrote this poem,
sifting words like wind through laurel leaves.
The woman in her bark-bound home

who only wished to live alone
across the river bank, even she believed
that somebody already wrote this poem.

Each passing year, another layered ring had grown
around her, wreathing her desire to live free.
The woman in her bark-bound home

chased, instead, what could be found inside: a wound
the leaden arrow made to bleed and bleed and bleed.
Somebody already wrote this poem,

she said. But grew on, though her wish became a stone.
And O her hands were green and green,
the woman in her bark-bound home.

The one for whom the golden arrow’s thrown
will never know quite what it means to flee.
Somebody already wrote this poem:
The woman, in her bark-bound home.



Poet's note: In a word, this poem is about constraints. It refers to the story of Apollo and Daphne from ancient Greece, and also to an Anne Sexton poem that refers to the same story. For those of you who are interested in such things, this poem is a villanelle.