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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
Goodbye
Death
Reality
Good
Bye
Farewell

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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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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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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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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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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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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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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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