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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.

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
Decay
Teeth
Full
Fall
Nature
Come

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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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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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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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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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I burn the way money burns.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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