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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.

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
Stars
Flag
Work
Beside
Flags
Star
Fronts
Window
Seams
Front
Hem
Gold
Alterations

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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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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.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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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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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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I have been cut in two.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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