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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.

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
Nineteen
Mature
Aging
Head
Middle
Age
Rowing

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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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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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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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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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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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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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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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