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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

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
Always
Hiss
Muck
Astrology
Bed
Planets
Gets
Wells
Well

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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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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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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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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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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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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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