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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
Sheer
Skin
Skins
Listen
Open
Dark
Cobweb
Give
Scoop
Giving
Cobwebs

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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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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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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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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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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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