Her Kind BY ANNE SEXTON I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind.
I think the power for me of the poem lies in its ability to get at two things:
the loneliness and otherness of what it is to be a witch
the loneliness and otherness of the animal/raw/feral female spirit that is part of some (all?) women
I am obviously speculating on both of these counts. But maybe you will agree.
Loved this one :)