Quote

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.

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
Growing
Nurse
Yachts
Words
Slowly
Mouthful
Away
Clock
Yacht
Come
Field
Clocks
Without
Fields
Nurses
Like
Watches
Steering
Watch
Petals
Open
Lilies

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In a dream you are never eighty.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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I burn the way money burns.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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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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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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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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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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