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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.

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
House
Cracks
Lapping
Anything
Walls
Stuffed
Needs
Throat
Ceased
Divorce
Fury
Daughter
Crack
Marriage
Shelves
Wall
Dishes
Within
Ashes

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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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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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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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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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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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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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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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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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