Quote

I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.

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
Whole
Arbitrary
Wrinkled
Time
Maps
Zones
Like
Zone
Buffalo
Opening
Cemetery
Stones
Desk
Small
Routes
Cemeteries
Night
Desks
Capitals
Place
Veins
Milwaukee

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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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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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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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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 Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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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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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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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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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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Rats live on no evil star
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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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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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