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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions

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
Full
Sixteen
Pants
Questions
Died

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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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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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Need is not quite belief.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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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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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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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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