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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.

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
Pay
Stale
Drink
Neighbors
Hair
Yellow
Joy
Poem
Called
Neighbor
Hope
Debt
Debts
Write
Lips
Vacuums
Writing
Motivation
Vacuum

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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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All who love have lied.
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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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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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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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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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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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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