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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
Shelf
Counting
Shelves
Silent
Waiting
Beautiful

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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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