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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

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
Drive
Window
Tree
Heart
Like
Starving
Windows
Nails
Trees

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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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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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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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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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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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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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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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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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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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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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