Sexton. The poet. Anne. The woman.
A play about the daughter who became a mother, the housewife who became a poet, the poet who went up in smoke.
Anne Sexton did everything backwards. First she married, then she fell in love. First she wrote, then she read. First she died, then she lived. Like anyone who dreams before they sleep. Who falls before they rise.
The Coyotes are many; Sexton is one. The Coyotes hunger for flesh; Sexton thirsts for blood. The ink flows.
“Do you become a poet with your hands?”
“With your guts.”
“The large intestine or the small?”
“The large. You keep one, you throw ten away.”
Anne Sexton, the great American poet, fell in love, married, had two children, made dozens of suicide attempts, lost her mind, won the Pulitzer Prize, drank too much and knew too little happiness.
So how much of the American Dream is really a dream? And how American is the dream of wisdom?
The play has been translated into English.
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