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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.

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
Angel
Holy
Within
Pinch
Something
Whisper
Companion
Grave
Graves
Fallen

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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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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 have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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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 Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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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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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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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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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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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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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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