I’m a North Shore Girl

Interrupted when I’m landlocked in Belmont,

away from the fish,

fat cats, and trash.

Sylvia Plath is shaking

her ass in the bell jar

while Steven Tyler takes 

a $4,300 nap

at The Pavilion. 

Sexton has sex

with herself

with candlepins 

she found underground. They’re stiff

in her mouth like cigarettes, enough pills

or a bite block for her pretty 

chronic frown. 

“Get out of the chapel,

Mr. Charles! That organ’s 

NOT for the blues. Play us a gospel or 103 FM

to get these blue bloods up and moving.”

There are rabbits on the front

lawn making crazy little babies

too many of them, of us, 

intrusive

thoughts. 

At the community meeting, we scream

“We need more apple juice for the Wild

Wild Women and David Foster Wallace!”

My mind is beautiful,

I feel fucking famous

or at least 

loud

here 

I get a nametag for

a notebook,

nicotine gum, ice block,

ice chip,

to-do list: 

eat a banana

color

read

walk twice.

No, you cannot

park your car in Harvard Yard

but you

can stay at Harvard’s affiliate

psychiatric hospital

if

you

have Mass

Health.

Here, 

Sylvia Plath wrote “The Bell Jar”

and I finger 

painted this big purple

circle.