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It is June. I am tired of being brave.

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
June
Brave
Tired

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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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Need is not quite belief.
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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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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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women are born twice.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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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. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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