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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.

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
Companion
Grave
Graves
Fallen
Angel
Holy
Within
Pinch
Something
Whisper

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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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I burn the way money burns.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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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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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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