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

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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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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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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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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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I burn the way money burns.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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