Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, 
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day, 
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.

Poet: Anne Sexton
Poem: Housewife
Poem of the Day: Sep 3 2005

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, Housewife, has received 28 comments. Click here to read them, and perhaps post a comment of your own.