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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.

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
Open
Dark
Cobweb
Give
Scoop
Giving
Cobwebs
Sheer
Skin
Skins
Listen

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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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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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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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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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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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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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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.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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