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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.

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
Childhood
Lived
Graveyard
Full
Grotesque
House
Dolls
Body
Suspect
Suspects
Avoiding
Six

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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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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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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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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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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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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 raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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All who love have lied.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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