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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

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
Undergoing
Meanwhile
Surgery
Head
Open
Heart

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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.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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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 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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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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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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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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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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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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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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