If you're not familiar with Anne Sexton, she was a confessional poet who wrote in the 50s and 60s after her psychologist suggested she try writing down her feelings; because of this, her poetry often detailed her depression. She committed suicide in 1974 at the age of 45.
I love a lot of Ms. Sexton's work, but my favorite is "The Truth the Dead Know," and since it is June, I decided to blog about it.
The Truth the Dead Know
Gone, I say and walk from church
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye, and knucklebone.