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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.

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
Blindness
Flesh
Ultimate
Sleep
Child
Signature
Start
Resides
Death
Signatures
Children
Builds

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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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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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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 tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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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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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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Death's in the good-bye.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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Rats live on no evil star
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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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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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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