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

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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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Need is not quite belief.
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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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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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women are born twice.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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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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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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