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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

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
Home
Fog
Still
Floats
Hanging
Boat
Sea
Future
Stills
Doe

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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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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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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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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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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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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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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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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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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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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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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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