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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
Pretend
Divorce
Husband
Marriage
Black
Ends
Sings
Certain
Pretense
Good
Sheep

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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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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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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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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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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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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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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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