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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

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
Anyone
Hope
Else
Accident
Give
Accidents
Giving
Finally
Something
Tried
Would
Outside
Worst

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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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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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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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... 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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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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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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All who love have lied.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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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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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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