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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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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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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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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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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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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Need is not quite belief.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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