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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

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
Became
Clot
Blood
Rebuilt
Hand
Rushed
History
Carpenter
Found
Fingers
Hands
Mines
Life
Mine
Like
Dance

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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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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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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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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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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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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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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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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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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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