Anne Sexton: Doctors

They work with herbs

and penicillin.

They work with gentleness

and the scalpel.

They dig out the cancer,

close an incision

and say a prayer

to the poverty of the skin.

They are not Gods

though they would like to be,

they are only human.

Many humans die.

They die like the tender,

palpitating berries

in November.

But all along the doctors remember:

First do no harm.

They would kiss it if it would heal.

It would not heal.

If the doctors cure

then the sun sees it.

If the doctors kill

then the earth hides it.

The doctors should fear arrogance

more than cardiac arrest.

If they are too proud,

and some are,

then they leave home on horseback

but God returns them on foot.

Anne Sexton: Small wire

My faith
is a great weight
hung on a small wire,
as doth the spider
hang her baby on a thin web,
as doth the vine,
twiggy and wooden,
hold up grapes
like eyeballs,
as many angels
dance on the head of a pin.

God does not need
too much wire to keep Him there,
just a thin vein,
with blood pushing back and forth in it,
and some love.
As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
So if you have only a thin wire,
God does not mind.
He will enter your hands
as easily as ten cents used to
bring forth a Coke.

Anne Sexton: I Remember

By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color–no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your

alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.