Aurelia Plath Confesses
by Lisa Mullenneaux
After we lost her, I wanted her back—before
her refusal to be born kept us in suspense
at Mass Memorial. Was she ever ready?
Otto never held her though she had eyes
for no one else, sneaking into his library, hiding
beneath his desk, a mole tunneling its way
among the festschrifts, boxes of manuscript
my hands had typed. Pinwheel, spin, somersault—
anything to get attention.
The last time I saw her at Court Green I could
do nothing right, say nothing right, her Devon farm
primed and ready for the pages of Mademoiselle.
I returned to Wellesley, to Tupperware and moonshots,
Lawrence Welk's bubble machine, but I fumed:
How can she disown me? Was I ever her mother?
That was before I became "the mother," a witch
who's baked into gingerbread.
I wanted a different ending: I want her back.
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