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Anne SextonWhen I began writing poetry in the early 1970’s Anne Sexton was a literary star. Her star went out almost as soon as I’d discovered her work, though; she committed suicide at the age of 44 in 1973. Young literary women like myself went into mourning, for we adored Anne’s poetry. She had brought certain “women’s subjects” to the fore--motherhood, love affairs, female anatomy—and also wrote revealingly about her breakdowns and her spiritual quests. At some point, I will feature Anne Sexton in my Lectio.Her early work was metrically tight; later her style became looser and more conversational. Overly clever phrasings and fanciful similes and metaphors began to run rampant. “Rampant” is as good a description as any for this poet’s exuberant excesses. Anne Sexton believed her “God” poems would make her reputation. True or not, this month’s poem is one that might unmake it. I’m all for a little irreverence in poetry, even heresy. But this poem, envisioning the baby Jesus at Mary’s breast, seems merely inane, not to mention theologically clueless. To be fair, mockery is the intention in this poem and others in her “Jesus Papers.” But mockery without trenchancy is childish stuff. Jesus SucklesMary, your greatwhite apples make me glad. I feel your heart work its machine and I doze like a fly. I cough like a bird on its worm. I’m a jelly-baby and you’re my wife. You’re a rock and I the fringy algae. You’re a lily and I’m the bee that gets inside. I close my eyes and suck you in like a fire. I grow. I grow. I’m fattening out. I’m a kid in a rowboat and you’re the sea, the salt, you’re every fish of importance. No. No. All lies. I am small and you hold me. You give me milk and we are the same and I am glad. No. No. All lies. I am a truck. I run everything. I own you. 
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