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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
Kiss
Mouth
Kissing
Mouths
Stain
Stains
Rust

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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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women are born twice.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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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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