I’m not yours, birds sing
Your hairdresser, mummy says
Your Ophelia, your Julia
And this also means that I’m
Not your cosmic admirer
After the glimpse
Of the grotesque
Laughing carcass
Turn away from it
The Bostonians
Are marching –
They are all
Calling out to me
Lowell, Sexton,
Plath, psychoanalysis
I have a child’s heart
The impressions of a child
The intelligence of a detached
Cold woman who can
Still feel the cruel blood
Of family, of mummy,
Preparation for upheaval
Chaos and disorder
Has been prescribed for me
Long ago
What is relaxation?
What is warmth?
All I know of the world
Is ego and sacrifice
Women must always be sacrificing
Nurturing and care-taking
It is impossible for them
For men to understand
Women can be poets too
And celebrate life
In the end it will either be
A case study of who was the most stimulating
Who was the most attractive?
But I was the one who was obsolete
For all my childhood years – imprisoned
And in the end I just gave up.
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