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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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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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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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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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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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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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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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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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God is only mocked by believers.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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All who love have lied.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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