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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

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
Brain
Tell
Explained
True
Hypothesis
Really
Struck
Never
Letting
Medical
Leaves

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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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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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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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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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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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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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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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