only your dolls is a song for voice and piano, setting a poem by Anne Sexton called Sixth Psalm.
The piece is part of a song cycle called finish what I haven’t started, about mid-century middle class female unhappiness. Other songs in the cycle set poems by June Jordan, Jane Bowles, and Lucille Clifton. finish what I haven’t started was commissioned by the Brooklyn Art Song Society, and premiered by Devony Smith and Danny Zelibor in April 2022.
The photograph is one of a series of images made by a family friend, Jo Ann Krivin. They have haunted me since childhood.
For America is a lady rocking on a porch in an unpainted house on an unused road but Anne does not see it.
For America is a librarian in Wichita coughing dust and sharing sourballs with the postman.
For America is Dr. Abraham passing out penicillin and sugar pills to the town of Woolrich, Pennsylvania.
For America is an old man washing his feet in Albion, Michigan. Drying them carefully and then applying Dr. Scholl’s foot powder. But Anne does not see it. Anne is locked in.
For America is a reformed burglar turned locksmith who pulls up the shades of his shop at nine A.M. daily (except Sunday when he leaves his phone number on the shop door).
For America is a fat woman dusting a grand piano in English Creek, New Jersey.
For America is a suede glove manufacturer sitting in his large swivel chair feeling the goods and assessing his assets and debits.
For America is a bus driver in Embarrass, Minnesota, clocking the miles and watching the little cardboard suitcases file by.
For America is a land of Commies and Prohibitionists but Anne does not see it. Anne is locked in. The Trotskyites don’t see her. The Republicans have never tweaked her chin for she is not there. Anne hides inside folding and unfolding rose after rose. She has no one. She has Christopher. They sit in their room pinching the dolls’ noses, poking the doll’s eyes. One time they gave a doll a ride in a fuzzy slipper but that was too far, too far wasn’t it. Anne did not dare. She put the slipper with the doll inside it as in a car right into the closet and pushed the door shut.
For America is the headlight man at the Ford plant in Detroit, Michigan, he of the wires, he of the white globe, all day, all day, all year, all his year’s headlights, seventy a day, improved by automation but Anne does not.
For America is a miner in Ohio, slipping into the dark hole and bringing forth cat’s eyes each night.
For America is only this room… there is no useful activity.
For America only your dolls are cheerful.
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