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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

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
Still
Forgotten
Sin
Magic
Alone
Talking
Noisy
Lost
Queen
Beautiful
Queens
Stills
Sins

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Poetry to me is prayer.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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I have been cut in two.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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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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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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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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