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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.

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
Owns
Crave
Heaven
Earth
Craves

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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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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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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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