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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.

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
Became
Learned
Full
Woman
Found
Soul
Skin
Skins

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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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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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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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women are born twice.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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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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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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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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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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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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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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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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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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