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

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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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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 hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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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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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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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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Death's in the good-bye.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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