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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
Died
Full
Sixteen
Pants
Questions

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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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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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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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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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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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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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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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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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