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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.

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
Good
Nurse
Except
Hand
White
Mild
Everyone
Mouse
Inspirational
Stays
Left
Mice
Hands
Muse

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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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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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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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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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