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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
Sixteen
Pants
Questions
Died
Full

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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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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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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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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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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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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 sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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