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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.

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
Love
Riddled
Like
Breakfast
Longing
Satisfaction
Dies
Desire
Nothing
Whole

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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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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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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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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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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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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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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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