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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.

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
Holy
Within
Pinch
Something
Whisper
Companion
Grave
Graves
Fallen
Angel

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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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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.
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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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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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