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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
Oaks
Leaves
Held
Fast
Girl
Littles
Skipped
Little
Replica
Wrinkled

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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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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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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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