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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going

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
Place
Going
Inhabited
Deepest
Broken

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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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