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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.

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
Experience
Babies
World
Angels
Kissing
Angel
Baby
Feet
Kisses
Morning
Philadelphia
Happiness
Oxygen

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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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All who love have lied.
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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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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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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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