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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.

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
Trying
Inch
Inches
God
Walk
Walks
Cannot
Without

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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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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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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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Need is not quite belief.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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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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