Quote

Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.

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
Like
Rings
Engagement
Twenty
Diamond
Twenties
Wedding
Tiny
Pulling
Forefinger
Leaving
Ring
Clicking
Mark
Fats
Thumb
Five
Divorce
Rip
Years
Holding
Thumbs

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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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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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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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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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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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