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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.

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
Sluts
Whores
Eyes
Eye
Play
Would

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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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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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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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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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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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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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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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