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Death's in the good-bye.

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
Death
Reality
Good
Bye
Farewell
Goodbye

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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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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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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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