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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.

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
Gloves
Veins
Filling
Burning
Red
Asbestos
Despite
Seeps
Fire
Cough
Black
Powder

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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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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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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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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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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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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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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 my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Rats live on no evil star
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