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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.

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
Come
Decay
Teeth
Full
Fall
Nature

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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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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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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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Need is not quite belief.
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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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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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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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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 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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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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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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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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