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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
Lilies
Glorify
Rejoice
Born
Live
Mailbox
Mailboxes
Roadside
Lily

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If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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Rats live on no evil star
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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