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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
Fallen
Angel
Holy
Within
Pinch
Something
Whisper
Companion
Grave
Graves

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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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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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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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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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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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