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My mouth blooms like a cut.

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
Like
Blooms
Mouth
Kissing
Mouths
Cutting

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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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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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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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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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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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