I have gone out, a possesed 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 ridden in your cart,
driver,
waved my nude arms at village going by,
learning the last bright routes,survivor where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack wher eyour wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.
-Anne Sexton