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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...

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
Girl
Diamond
Lost
Lady
Mother
Count
Fingered
Mood
Deathbed
Cost
Jewel
Sweet
Moods
Present
Jewels
Faces
Sharp

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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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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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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes 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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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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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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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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