In a word: AMAZING! I think Sexton was a woman before her time. Her writing inspires, it evokes emotion. It's "real"...and just generally tears me up. But I love every line, every word chosen. Lines and words that create images in your mind, images that stick with you. 
 My favorite poem of hers: 
 For My Lover, Returning To His Wife 
 She is all there. 
 She was melted carefully down for you 
 and cast up from your childhood, 
 cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies. 
 She has always been there, my darling. 
 She is, in fact, exquisite. 
 Fireworks in the dull middle of February 
 and as real as a cast-iron pot. 
 Let's face it, I have been momentary. 
 A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor. 
 My hair rising like smoke from the car window. 
 Littleneck clams out of season. 
 She is more than that. She is your have to have, 
 has grown you your practical your tropical growth. 
 This is not an experiment. She is all harmony. 
 She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy, 
 has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast, 
 sat by the potter's wheel at midday, 
 set forth three children under the moon, 
 three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo, 
 done this with her legs spread out 
 in the terrible months in the chapel. 
 If you glance up, the children are there 
 like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling. 
 She has also carried each one down the hall 
 after supper, their heads privately bent, 
 two legs protesting, person to person 
 her face flushed with a song and their little sleep. 
 I give you back your heart. 
 I give you permission-- 
 for the fuse inside her, throbbing 
 angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her 
 and the burying of her wound-- 
 for the burying of her small red wound alive-- 
 for the pale flickering flare under her ribs, 
 for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse, 
 for the mother's knee, for the stockings, 
 for the garter belt, for the call-- 
 the curious call 
 when you will burrow in arms and breasts 
 and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair 
 and answer the call, the curious call. 
 She is so naked and singular. 
 She is the sum of yourself and your dream. 
 Climb her like a monument, step after step. 
 She is solid. 
 As for me, I am a watercolor. 
 I wash off. 
 See, amazing, right?