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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

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
Opposite
Suicide
Opposites
Poem

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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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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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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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All who love have lied.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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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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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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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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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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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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Love your self's self where it lives.
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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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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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