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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.

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
God
Saws
Short
Lord
Multitudes
Jesus
Cook
Christ
Cooks
Order
Send
Hungry

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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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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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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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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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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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