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

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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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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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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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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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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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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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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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