… before today my body was useless./ now it’s tearing at its square corners.
Of my three aunts, Sylvia, Adrienne
and Anne, two killed themselves and one refused
to look at me. I’ve loved them. I’ve loved gin,
static-buzz, bone-fever — all that confused
their words with being something more. “Nomen
est omen:” call me, “Left Behind.” Call her:
“Matertera.” Without these three women
what am I? Check your tongue about that slur
that I’ve broken my pact made between gods
and their dire verse; as if either pleased.
Tonight I want an aunt’s voice that marauds
through my skull, that translates all that buzzed
into something. Confessions. I love them.
I love their words. Their so-called hate and sin.
Todos sozinhos eu saí, uma bruxa possessa,
assombrando o ar negro, mais corajosa à noite;
sonhando maldade, realizei meu voo
por sobre as casas, luz após luz:
Eu sou um coisa sozinha, com doze dedos, fora do juízo.
Uma mulher como essa não é uma mulher, quase.
Uma vez eu era o tipo dela.
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.
— from Anne Sexton, HER KIND