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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!

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
Drawn
Bulb
Death
Sucking
Light
Moths
Like
Bulbs
Electric
Burned
Talked
Intensity

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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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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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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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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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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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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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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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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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