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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.

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
Wide
Birth
Wise
Bigs
Heart
Much
People
Watermelon
Abundance

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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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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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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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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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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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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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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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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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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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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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