Quote

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.

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
Dishes
Wall
Ashes
Within
Cracks
Lapping
House
Walls
Stuffed
Anything
Throat
Ceased
Needs
Divorce
Fury
Daughter
Crack
Shelves
Marriage

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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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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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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 future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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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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Need is not quite belief.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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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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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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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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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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