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

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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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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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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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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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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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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 rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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All who love have lied.
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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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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
Anne Sexton