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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
Something
Whisper
Companion
Grave
Graves
Fallen
Angel
Holy
Within
Pinch

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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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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 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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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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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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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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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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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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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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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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Death's in the good-bye.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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