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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.

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
Mole
Moles
Shy
Secret
Future

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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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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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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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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.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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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 rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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I have been cut in two.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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