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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.

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
Starving
Meal
Meals
Hunger
Asks
Doesn
Men

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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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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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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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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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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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God is only mocked by believers.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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