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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.

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
Abundance
Remains
Scooped

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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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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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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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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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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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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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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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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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