Tag Archives: anne sexton
They kill poets in these parts don’t they? When I got here I saw Walt Whitman’s wizened head out back impaled on a stake flies buzzing round its concomitant rot and stench I heard one of the locals say it … Continue reading
It begins with a stopwatch, and a glass of water. The stopwatch belonged to her father, or to her father’s father. The glass of water is a joke. Imagine trying to remedy all that desert within, all that scabbing red … Continue reading
Anne, lovely disturbed Anne, pinned by gravity, and bedded to cobbles, cherishing the vagrant destiny of clouds, and calming distance.
In a ballroom gown, the suicide was delayed– Beauty, will you stay?
Water, like a tempera of fog, buoying the natal intent, the fragile rapture, against which gravity sets an insoluble course.
I. There is strange music in her head, a choir’s brew. You cannot see it but, in the bask of a sunchecked idle, she drifts beyond ordinary logic to dream of water like melted locks, like aquamarine flowers silk to … Continue reading
I want to eat Anne Sexton for breakfast like toxic cereal like bacon fat like sunbursts of egg yolk swallowed whole and washed down with a glass of fire (then I will spit up the flames burning down the … Continue reading