Self-Portrait as Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and Others

I smooth down my skirt, toss my hair. My buckles rattle with each step
Like little bayonets. They’re called knife pleats for a reason.

The blue wool of a Jaeger dress is better than twenty dinners with an idiot.
Bring me the head of Cristóbal Balenciaga! It’s a hoot

To sneak cigarettes in some Boston dive, pretend I’m a divorcée.
The curl in a bouffant will always betray you. What’s the point

Of living like a cartoon nun when you can pose for the camera
In a shantung sheath? My hair is dark as a drawn-on eyebrow.

I lay my fingers on the plate like a fan. I’ve been waiting all my life
To be noticed, crossing and uncrossing my legs. (How the high heel

Of summer presses at our throats.) It’s a blast to guzzle
Martinis with the ‘girls’, pretend I’m thin as a polyester dress.

A string of pearls round my neck like an artificial promise:
The harsh taste of gin like an unrequited laugh.