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

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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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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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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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women are born twice.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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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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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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All who love have lied.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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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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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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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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