Quote

think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!

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
Goes
Blast
Quite
Mythology
Wells
Sail
Well
Larger
Think
Innocent
Thinking
Admire
Wings
Icarus
Ocean
Fog

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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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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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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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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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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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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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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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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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Mood can be as important as sense.
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