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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

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
Fit
Clothes
Full
Soul
Cured
Closet
Closets
Dresses

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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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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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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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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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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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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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