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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?

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
Special
Crowded
Animal
Soup
Maybe
Feed
Opening
Animals
Hermit
Door
Hermits
Doors
Skull
Becoming
Skulls

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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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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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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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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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