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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.

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
Thumb
Teen
Motorcycle
Thumbs
Adolescence
Maturity
Cribs
Age
Whirling
Children
Tremble

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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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I have been cut in two.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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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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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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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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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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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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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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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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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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