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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.

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
Feet
Intimate
Head
Drunk
Term
Drinking
Without
Warm
Think
Cool
Thinking
Neither
Fool
Insensible
Dead
Foot

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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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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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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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women are born twice.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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