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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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
Bills
Corner
Bread
Checks
Kissing
Dues
Saying
Kiss
Invalids
Past
Corners
Bust
Every
Cat
Wallets
Love
Affection
Rises
Like
Dust
Pale
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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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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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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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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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.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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