Quote

Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.

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
Time
Dog
Elderly
Lived
Boston
Full
Hats
Greater
Democrats
Hate
Dogs
Humps
Around
Lady
Outlived
Never
Democrat
Spleen
Men
Awful
Hating

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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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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 did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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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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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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