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

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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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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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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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All who love have lied.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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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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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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