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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Counting
Shelves
Silent
Waiting
Beautiful
Shelf

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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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