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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.

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
Crabs
Fast
Inside
Huge
Animal
Heart
Clutching
Crab

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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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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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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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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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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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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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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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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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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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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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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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