To Chelsea

Clinton.

If the name stings,
will you wear the veil
while tending the bees?

When the dynasty burns,
will you carry the water jug
or the torch?

Did you envy the man with the face tattoo?
Avoid strangers who claimed they knew you?
I do.

It’s only a story, says Chelsea.
Today it’s me, tomorrow it’s she.

The sun cracks the apple’s skin
without the shadow of its tree.

And the Bodleian became the fortress
that our fathers used to be.

Same streets, different decades, we only pass by,
you and I,
make waves in different seas.

But you named your daughter after me.
But you named your daughter after me.