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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?

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
Friends
Salted
Bigs
Packed
Father
Fifty
Enough
Snow
Like
Nine
Angel
Died
Wasn

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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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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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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 said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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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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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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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 am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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I burn the way money burns.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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