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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.

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
Green
Cockroach
Father
Genitals
Cockroaches
Frog
Frogs
Bags
Nerves
Malformed
Soft
Doorknob

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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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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.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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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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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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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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I burn the way money burns.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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