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My mouth blooms like a cut.

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
Kissing
Mouths
Cutting
Like
Blooms
Mouth

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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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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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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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women are born twice.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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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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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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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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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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