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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.
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
Come
Large
Mated
Like
Dying
Dancers
Growth
Forgiven
Lines
Dancer
Acting
Perfectly
Actors
Mouth
White
Mouths
Comes
Wings
Growths
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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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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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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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 Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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I burn the way money burns.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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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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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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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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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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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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Need is not quite belief.
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