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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.

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
Mouths
Stain
Stains
Rust
Kiss
Mouth
Kissing

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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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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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I have been cut in two.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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