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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

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
Water
Hating
Hate
Dolls
Mother
Wore
Firsts
Earlier
First
Dirt
Diaper
Much
Childhood
Thereof
Went
Doll
Came
Diapers

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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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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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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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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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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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I have been cut in two.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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