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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

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
Memories
Dragged
Desire
Nostalgic
Past
Intimidating
Pushed
Sweetness
Unknown
Irretrievable
Desires
Engulfed
Darkness
Scarred

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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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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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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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Need is not quite belief.
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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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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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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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