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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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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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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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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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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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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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