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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside

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
Roadside
Lily
Lilies
Glorify
Rejoice
Born
Live
Mailbox
Mailboxes

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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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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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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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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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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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