We promised to be honest, so I hate to confess I don’t know
how to feel about you. By now I’ve grown accustomed to hearing my name after
yours, falling into an easy rhythm just one step behind
your swift stride as we enter each room. When you talk of power I see my own
ambition, and sometimes I imagine myself
in your shoes (feet firmly planted in sturdy boots
instead of swaying on heels that still leave me short,
always looking up to you because I inherited my mother’s body
and the type of face that has never graced the pages of an American history book
about presidents). I think I could be the one.
But you’re a natural, the way I don’t know how
to be; so effortlessly casual in your jeans and band tee
and I act pretentious in my pantsuits, but I’d dress more like you
if I had the privilege. You’re louder and more stubborn,
and I call myself a better diplomat for holding my tongue
till my fingers shrivel. I roll my eyes at your rough edges
and fantasize about taking your place, but I’m afraid you vex me only
because you are all a girl like me
dare not admit she wishes to be