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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Death
Fathering
Doesn
Fatherhood
Remember
Daddy
Matter
Dad
Children
Matters
Grief
Daughter
Father

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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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