Sailor reads more poetry than any person I have ever met. He tackles poets I wouldn’t dream of reading unless I had the backup of a college professor. He can quote any number of poets at the drop of a hat. He is my own personal library card catalogue. All I have to ask is “Hey, what’s that one about the fork?” and he knows it.

Similarly, I’ve probably made more mixed tapes than anyone I know. I do a damned good mixed tape. Ask anyone who has received one from me. I like to craft a collection that is thematic. Like an old fashioned record album. I want to tell a story with the music I gather into one place. Like Sailor, hum a few bars for me or give me a a word or two and I am the grand champion of Name That Tune.

So I’m trying to apply my mixed tape mentality to this week’s poems. This next poem isn’t so much about love, but about letting someone into the inner workings of your noggin. A little exposure if you will. And as far Sailor is concerned, if you’re reading this, I am sure this isn’t anything you don’t already know about me.

I Have Been Her Kind

Anne Sexton

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.