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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.

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
Fish
Fishes
Awake
Naked
Color
Always
Caramel
Spoons

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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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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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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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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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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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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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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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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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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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