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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.

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
Mouths
Liver
Marriage
Movements
Movement
Wedding
House
Houses
Another
Marry
Women
Skin
Heart
Skins
Kind
Mouth
Bowel

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I have been cut in two.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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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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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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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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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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