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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.

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
Like
Flower
Months
Monuments
Blood
Bloom
Break
Exotic
Woman
Monument
Two
Month
Children
Aging
Would
Legs

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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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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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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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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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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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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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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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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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