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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.

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
Good
Sheep
Pretend
Divorce
Husband
Marriage
Black
Ends
Sings
Certain
Pretense

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I burn the way money burns.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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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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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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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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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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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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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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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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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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