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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.

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
Rocket
Rockets
Sky
Coming
Fire
Littles
Little
Ablaze
Like
Thrush

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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.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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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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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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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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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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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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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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