Quote

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.

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
Even
Telephone
Telephones
Tear
Seep
Cover
Mattress
Roots
Mattresses
Tears
Booth
Evil
Receiver
Must
Bury

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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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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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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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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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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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All who love have lied.
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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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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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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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