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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions

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
Questions
Died
Full
Sixteen
Pants

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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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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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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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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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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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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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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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