Quote

Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.

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
Made
Bones
Spoons
Always
Keys
Altar
Objects
Altars
Dreams
Bone
Waiting
Cook
Mattress
Church
Cooks
Mattresses
Upon
Bless
Typewriter
Dream
Useful
Typewriters

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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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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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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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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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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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