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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.

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
Security
Doorstep
Home
Subway
World
Ripped
Commerce
Submit
Awful
Fate
Leave

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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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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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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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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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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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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 have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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I have been cut in two.
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Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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