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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

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
Bird
Everyone
Beating
Wings

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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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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 love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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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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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
Anne Sexton