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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
Heart
Undergoing
Meanwhile
Surgery
Head
Open

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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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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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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. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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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 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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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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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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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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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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