by Mary Ellen Talley
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I would no more pick up a book
of confessional poetry than
read cautionary tales and Greek myths
while picketing the White House in my youth.
Vietnam was such a waste.
Why in the world am I reading Plath
when I should be boning up for Epstein testimony?
Some say my schedule was suicidal
when I was Secretary of State. I came of age early
but took Bill’s name as my own
in spite of Gloria Steinem’s dominion.
There is little value in confession;
Whitewater just about did us in,
but see how even my daughter
embraces our legacy. She learned the lesson
of the ratings game and will thrive
even if her hubby’s hedge fund
ever skims the truth. At least I’m free
to be honest. Epstein was Bill’s gig,
not mine, although I’m savvy enough to know
the more opulent connections the better,
especially while the world goes bonkers.
Plath wrote, It might be heaven,
This state plentitude: still in one
Gigantic tapestry…. That’s my life.
Plath’s young mental illness captures me,
Twice that lamp of the possible.
I believe in that. We studied the Greeks
at Wellesley. First reading, I disliked Perseus,
but here I am in Plath’s title,
The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering.
I refuse catastrophe. I still maintain
more rigor than any elected sycophants.
No rigor mortis come to stiffen all creation.
If I could only sway Senators with such strong words!
But why am I reading from a woman
who let adultery cave her in? Not me!
I’m blond. Plath brunette. Neither of us stupid.
But she stuck her head in the oven to escape.
How could she dare to evade
this imperfect future, this amazing challenge?
Mary Ellen Talley’s poems have appeared in many journals including Louisville Review, Deep Wild, and Trampoline as well as in multiple anthologies, and three chapbooks. She resides in Seattle, WA and worked for many years as a school-based speech/language pathologist (SLP.)
