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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.

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
Men
Awful
Hating
Time
Dog
Elderly
Lived
Boston
Full
Hats
Greater
Democrats
Hate
Dogs
Humps
Around
Lady
Outlived
Never
Democrat
Spleen

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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Rats live on no evil star
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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.
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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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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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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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