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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

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
Survives
Wondering
Fragile
Grass
Ground
Wonder
Break
Anything
Stout

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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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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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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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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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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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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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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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