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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.

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
Fixing
Throb
Bodies
Sucking
Forgiving
Lawn
Machines
Pond
Cutting
Soda
Body
Vodka
Ponds
Lawns

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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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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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