Anne Sexton
Bayonet
What can I do with this bayonet? Make a rose bush of it? Poke it into the moon? Shave my legs with its silver? Spear a goldfish? No. No. It was made In my
Hornet
A red-hot needle Hangs out of him, he steers by it As if it were a rudder, he Would get in the house any way he could And then he would bounce from window
The Fury Of Overshoes
They sit in a row Outside the kindergarten, Black, red, brown, all With those brass buckles. Remember when you couldn’t Buckle your own Overshoe Or tie your own Overshoe Or tie your own shoe
Old
I’m afraid of needles. I’m tired of rubber sheets and tubes. I’m tired of faces that I don’t know And now I think that death is starting. Death starts like a dream, Full of
The Fury Of Earth
The day of fire is coming, the thrush, Will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket, The beetle will sink like a giant bulldozer, And at the breaking of the morning the houses Will
Again and Again and Again
You said the anger would come back Just as the love did. I have a black look I do not Like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its
August 17th
Good for visiting hospitals or charitable work. Take some time to attend to your health. Surely I will be disquieted By the hospital, that body zone Bodies wrapped in elastic bands, Bodies cased in
When Man Enters Woman
When man, Enters woman, Like the surf biting the shore, Again and again, And the woman opens her mouth with pleasure And her teeth gleam Like the alphabet, Logos appears milking a star, And
The Death King
I hired a carpenter To build my coffin And last night I lay in it, Braced by a pillow, Sniffing the wood, Letting the old king Breathe on me, Thinking of my poor murdered
Wallflower
Come friend, I have an old story to tell you- Listen. Sit down beside me and listen. My face is red with sorrow And my breasts are made of straw. I sit in the
Killing The Love
I am the love killer, I am murdering the music we thought so special, That blazed between us, over and over. I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss. I am pushing
Wanting to Die
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the almost unnameable lust returns. Even then I have nothing against life. I know well the
The Breast
This is the key to it. This is the key to everything. Preciously. I am worse than the gamekeeper’s children Picking for dust and bread. Here I am drumming up perfume. Let me go
With Mercy For The Greedy
for my friend Ruth, who urges me to make an Appointment for the Sacrament of Confesson Concerning your letter in which you ask Me to call a priest and in which you ask Me
Consorting With Angels
I was tired of being a woman, Tired of the spoons and the post, Tired of my mouth and my breasts, Tired of the cosmetics and the silks. There were still men who sat