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.
It was a humid, ninety-plus degree day, not unlike today when I discovered Anne Sexton’s poetry. I’d found sanctuary from the sun in a random little bookstore on Bleecker Street and stumbled upon a used copy of Live or Die published in 1966. With a confessional style rivaled only by Sylvia Plath, it didn’t take long for Sexton to get under my skin and stay there long after that humble bookstore was replaced by yet another boutique.
Published in her collection To Bedlam and Part Way Back in 1960, “Her Kind” is a riveting celebration of individualism and finding the courage to go beyond the increasingly rigid expectations of society. From the very first line, Sexton explores the mind and behaviors of the “witch” at the center of a “witch-hunt” portraying a woman that is not fearful of the night, but emboldened by it.
She suffers trials and judjment and flames. But this woman is unfazed by those who are offended by her unorthodox methods or disturbed by her unusual beliefs. And despite the punishments society doles out, she survives and continues to pursue a life of her choosing, guided by her desires and not those that have been impressed upon her since birth.
Nice to be reminded of this poem. Thank you!