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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.

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
Orange
Lays
Medicine
Green
Sleep
White
Two
Pink

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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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All who love have lied.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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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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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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