Quote

My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

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
Tag
Left
Wrists
Bloom
Two
Worn
Right
Injury
Like
Name
Blood
Names
Tags

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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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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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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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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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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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