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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.

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
Nature
Twig
Form
Twigs
Today
Infection
Must
Jewels
Important
Ring
Rings
Gods
Meant

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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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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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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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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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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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