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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.

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
Faith
Smash
Truth
Fertility
May
Raise
Long
Flowers
Raises
Winter
Sex
Flower
Pelvis

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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 was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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