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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
Little
Replica
Wrinkled
Oaks
Leaves
Held
Fast
Girl
Littles
Skipped

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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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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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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Rats live on no evil star
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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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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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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All who love have lied.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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