Quote

There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of 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
Heart
Vocation
Made
Breast
Good
Breasts
Like
Wear
Blood
Left
Look
Clot
Looks
Sewn

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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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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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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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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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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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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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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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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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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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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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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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