Quote

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.

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
Splendid
Pill
Loose
Cloth
Sleeping
Bolts
Aliens
Pearl
Skin
Floats
Skins
Pills
Sleep
Pearls
Stung
White
Alien
Bolt

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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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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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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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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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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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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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women are born twice.
Anne Sexton
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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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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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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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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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