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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.

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
Connections
Coffins
Letters
Telephone
Full
Photo
Talk
Telephones
Girl
Chain
Lost
Letter
Chains
Keyholes
Bills
Wrinkled

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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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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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If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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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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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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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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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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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