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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

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
Girl
Littles
Skipped
Little
Replica
Wrinkled
Oaks
Leaves
Held
Fast

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Need is not quite belief.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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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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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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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All who love have lied.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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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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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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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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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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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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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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