July 1953
My mother’s nearly 21
and she’s still not married.
She’s on her lunch hour
from the hospital
where she’s been working for two years
in the file room
in order to meet a doctor.
She’s eating a boiled egg and salad
and crying on a bench
on Boston Common.
Then she sees the girl next to her
on the bench
has red eyes too.
Mother draws her out.
My mother says to Sylvia Plath,
“What are you crying about,
you’re young, blue-eyed,
blonde,
you don’t live in a ghetto,
you’re thin,
what else could you want?”
Page(s) 25
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