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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.

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
Body
Darling
Ties
Comfort

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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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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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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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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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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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