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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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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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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, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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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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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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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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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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