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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.

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
Suicidal
Damn
Kill
Body
Hard
Thing

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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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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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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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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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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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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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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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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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