Anne Sexton Poems

Better,
despite the worms talking to
the mare’s hoof in the field;
better,
...

A woman
who loves a woman
is forever young.
...

We sail out of season into on oyster-gray wind,
over a terrible hardness.
Where Dickens crossed with mal de mer
in twenty weeks or twenty days
...

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
...

I stand before the sea
and it rolls and rolls in its green blood
saying, 'Do not give up one god
for I have a handful.'
...

Perhaps the earth is floating,
I do not know.
Perhaps the stars are little paper cutups
made by some giant scissors,
...

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
...

Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, fisted like a snail, so small and strong
...

Somebody who should have been born
is gone.
...

They work with herbs
and penicillin
They work with gentleness
...