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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.

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
Lying
Queen
History
Criminal
Stills
Queens
Still
Depression
Matter
Criminals
Like
Snow
Lies
Brandy
Dead
Solace

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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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All who love have lied.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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I have been cut in two.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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.
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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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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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