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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.

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
Learned
Full
Woman
Found
Soul
Skin
Skins
Became

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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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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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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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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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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