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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.

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
Faith
Doth
Great
Wire
Thin
Hung
Hang
Weight
Baby
Spider
Small
Spiders

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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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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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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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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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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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