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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.

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
Self
Queen
Cheese
Queens
Bread
King
Kings
Rocks
Couple

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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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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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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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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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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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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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