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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

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
Limes
Asparagus
Tongues
Seasons
Tongue
Rich

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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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I burn the way money burns.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Rats live on no evil star
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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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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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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