Quote

There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.

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
Word
White
Ground
Another
Bird
Today
Summer
Time
Number
Think
Watches
Thinking
Watch
Numbers

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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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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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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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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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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 think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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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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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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