Then I realized-I hadn't read, hadn't even skimmed, any of her three 'final' collections-- The Awful Rowing Toward God, 45 Mercy Street, or Words for Dr. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. In any case, enough back story. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I guess I am better off when I have the strength to choose myself, my truth, and my own feelings over the comfort of others who would love nothing more than for me to just shut up and fake it until I die. But today I set the bed afire and smoke is filling the room, it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt, and the icebox, a gluey white tooth. Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? I read The Hours a few years ago and though I couldn't put it down, it was very unsettling.
I did not know the hour, an hour of night like thick scum but I considered the dreams, the two: Swastika, Crucifix, and said: Oh well, it doesn't belong to me, if a cigar can be a cigar then a dream can be a dream. Personally, I enjoy cursing out such punishing entities. She enrolled in a modeling course at the Hart Agency and lived in San Francisco and Baltimore. There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag. Husband, I bent slowly down and washed them in magical waters.
But her struggles with mood and inner chaos ring true for this bipolar chick over here. And yet I know the number. From that synergy emerged a period of wild creativity that resulted in more than a dozen collections and a Pulitzer Prize. She was also working on a poem with the same title at the time of her death. In the morning I run from door to door of the cabin playing chase me.
And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. Likewise, though 'The Divorce Papers' feels often as if it could have been shaved down by a few poems--or that some of the better poems, had they been hammered out just a little further, would have been jaw-droppingly amazing--there's that riveting passion for life that always shines through Sexton's pain. Near the final scene, Mercy Street enters the soundtrack. After this a desperate kind of loneliness took over her life. I knew who Anne Sexton was and I knew how she had died; I was not unaware of her as a writer. Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? It certainly shows through the collection, which is often hit or miss in terms of quality.
I wanted him to fly, burst like a missile from your throat, burst from the spidery-mother-web, burst from Woman herself where too many had laid out lights that stuck to you and left a burn that smarted into your middle age. In any case, enough back story. I try the Back Bay. Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through. Y--probably because I had often read about how swift her poetic decline was in her later years.
Cinderella You always read about it: the plumber with twelve children who wins the Irish Sweepstakes. And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. We do the best that we can. The wings of the watchman, if I spoke, would hurt the bird of your soul as he nested, bit, sucked, flapped. Reading crease at spine and left edge of front cover. I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I was your small public, your small audience but it was you that was clapping, it was you untying the snarls and knots, the webs, all bloody and gluey; you with your twelve tongues and twelve wings beating, wresting, beating, beating your way out of childhood, that airless net that fastened you down.
Cinderella went to the tree at the grave and cried forth like a gospel singer: Mama! I had already begun to notice that so-termed 'decline' as early as The Book of Folly, which admittedly, as a follow-up to Transformations which I consider her best collection , did not really hold water. How did I manage to not know that? I read Endless Love not because I was inspired by Brooke Shields' acting in the movie adaptation. Pull the shades down -- I don't care! You know that when winter comes and the snow comes that it won't be real snow. Lust has taken plant in it and I have placed you and your child at its milk tip. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River.
If you don't want it to be snow you just pay money. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. More Than Myself Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind, in the commonplaces of the asylum where the cracked mirror or my own selfish death outstared me. That is the way with amputations. Husband, I placed each one where it belonged on you. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.