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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

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
Need
Sea
Needs
Kill
Even
Says
Voice
Woman
Death
Addiction
Littles
Rise
Little
Tiny

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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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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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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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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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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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 am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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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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I grow old on my bitterness.
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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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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.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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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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In a dream you are never eighty.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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