Quote

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

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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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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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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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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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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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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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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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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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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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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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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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