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?

 

Warren heard a groan while the police

 

were out looking. We found her eating dirt, 

 

my child eating her way to China.

 

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.