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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.

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
Hating
Bury
Sand
Somewhere
Eyes
Eye
Hate
Would

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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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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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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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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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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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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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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 remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
Anne Sexton
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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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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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
Anne Sexton
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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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