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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

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
Tree
Heart
Like
Starving
Windows
Nails
Trees
Drive
Window

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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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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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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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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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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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