Have You Made It This Far?
I have watched you collect female poets
like some strange voyeur. I see you now,
dusting the shelf, then peering through
the bars inhibiting your view. How could you
know my eyes behold your pupils? Perhaps
Anne would approve this bold move,
clinking her ice-
filled glass, waiting to inhale
deep fumes blown out of the mouth.
Perhaps I misjudge you; I am full
of Plath’s Daddy. Perhaps the pain
of a heart’s needle forces me to undo
myself, or maybe I am still
dancing from two years past, clinging
like forever to my daddy’s shirt,
sweat-streaked and warm.
Perhaps I am simply pacing,
a poetess caught in her cage.
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