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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.

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
Baritone
Please
Baritones
Leave
Suit
Alone
Contentment
Death
Fats
Right
Suits
Send
Red

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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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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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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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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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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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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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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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