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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
Black
Ends
Sings
Certain
Pretense
Good
Sheep
Pretend
Divorce
Husband
Marriage

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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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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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women are born twice.
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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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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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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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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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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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