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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.

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
Tribal
Forbidden
God
Female
Known

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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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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 think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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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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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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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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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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