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

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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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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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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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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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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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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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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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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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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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