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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.

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
Like
Zeppelin
Zeppelins
Kitten
Butter
Blowing
Although
Maybe

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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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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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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
Anne Sexton