Twenty-five poems celebrating the sensual frontiers of Sexton's life.
While a ten-inch snow came down like stars in small calcium fragments, we were in our own bodies (that room that will bury us) and you were in my body (that room that will outlive us) and at first I rubbed your feet dry with a towel because I was your slave and then you called me princess.
Al mio amante che torna da sua moglie (Anne Sexton) Lei è tutta là. Lei è sempre stata là, mio caro. Lei è tutta armonia. Soccupa lei dei remi e degli scalmi del canotto, ha messo fiorellini sul davanzale a colazione, sè seduta a tornire stoviglie a mezzogiorno, ha esposto tre bambini al plenilunio, tre puttini disegnati da Michelangelo, lha fatto a gambe spalancate nei mesi faticosi alla cappella. Se dai unocchiata, i bambini sono lassù sospesi alla volta come delicati palloncini.
I hope that despite a messy (if only for its failure to be epic or stormy or contented and sweet) past love-life I will never know the pain that the the speaker of this poem knows. I hope that this poem, if nothing else, will remind me to secure my heart from loving men such as these, regardless of who or what they are married to. My hair rising like smoke from the car window. She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy, has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast, sat by the potter's wheel at midday, set forth three children under the moon, three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo, done this with her legs spread out in the terrible months in the chapel. If you glance up, the children are there like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
You are winging like a school girl. Hello, spirit. A blight had been forecast and has been cast out." Many women are singing together of this: one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine, one is at the aquarium tending a seal, one is dull at the wheel of her Ford, one is at the toll gate collecting, one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona, one is straddling a cello in Russia, one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt, one is painting her bedroom walls moon colour, one is dying but remembering a breakfast, one is stretching on her mat in Thailand, one is wiping the ass of her child, one is staring out the window of a train in the middle of Wyoming and one is anywhere and some are everywhere and all seem to be singing, although some can not sing a note. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am let me carry a ten-foot scarf, let me carry bowls for the offering (if that is my part). My hair rising like smoke from the car window. If you glance up, the children are there like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling. She has also carried each one down the hall after supper, their heads privately bent, two legs protesting, person to person, her face flushed with a song and their little sleep. Climb her like a monument, step after step. 21-22 * * * Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons; and my feet, those two children let out to play naked. Long brown legs and long brown toes. Further up, my darling, the woman is calling her secrets, little houses, little tongues that tell you. The gulls kill fish, crying out like three-year-olds. While a ten-inch snow came down like stars in small calcium fragments, we were in our own bodies (that room that will bury us) and you were in my body (that room that will outlive us) and at first I rubbed your feet dry with a towel because I was your slave and then you called me princess. Oh then I stood up in my gold skin and I beat down the psalms and I beat down the clothes and you undid the bridle and you undid the reins and I undid the buttons, and bones, the confusions, the New England postcards, the January ten o'clock night, and we rose up like wheat, acre after acre of gold, and we harvested, we harvested.
Anne Sexton once told a journalist that her fans thought she got better, but actually, she just became a poet. While she was receiving psychiatric treatment, Anne started writing poetry. It all started after another suicide attempt, when Orne came to her and told her that she still has a purpose in life. In March 1972 Anne and Kayo got divorced. Anne didnt mention a word to Kayo about her intention to get divorced. She once told Orne that I feel like my mother whenever I put it the fur coat on.