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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

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
Dorian
Gray
Wall

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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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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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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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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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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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Need is not quite belief.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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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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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.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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