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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.

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
Better
Corpses
Great
Worms
Would
Sigh
Think
Believed
Thinking
Anymore
Daisies
Like
Ears
Corpse
Listen
Slide
Dies
Slides

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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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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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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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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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