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I burn the way money burns.

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
Burns
Burn
Money
Way

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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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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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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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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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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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women are born twice.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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