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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.

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
Heat
Sick
Eye
Feverish
Frowning
Yellow
Sunshine

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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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All who love have lied.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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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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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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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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Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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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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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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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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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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