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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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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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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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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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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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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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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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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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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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