Quote

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!

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
Road
Eating
Fritter
Turn
Succulents
Turns
Succulent
Come
Pretender
Would
Cannibal
Chicken
Chickens

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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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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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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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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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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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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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