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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

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
Survives
Wondering
Fragile
Grass
Ground
Wonder
Break
Anything
Stout

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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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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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